Goodbye Charlie

By BadgerGater

Season: Six

Episode: After the episode Allegiance

Spoilers: Show and Tell, Summit/Last Stand, Frozen, Abyss, Allegiance,

Category: Drama, action/adventure, hurt/comfort

Pairing: None

Summary: After the events of Summit/Last Stand, the Tok’ra are on the run and Jack gets bad news about one of them whom he considers very important

Rating: Not for children; Fit for older teens and adults

Warnings: The F-word is used several times, though not without adequate provocation.

Disclaimer: Don’t own Stargate, and yes, I know it.
Author's Pledge: Honest and accurate information provided to potential readers so that they may make informed choices on whether or not to read

Author's Note: For Margo, Martina, Corine, Ulrike, Cokie, and all the great folks who love Jack

^^^^^^^^^^^^^

The wormhole flickered, its blue light glowing in the Ravenna dusk. Major Samantha Carter hugged her father, then turned toward the Stargate, trotting up the steps to follow her teammates Dr. Daniel Jackson and the alien Jaffa, Teal’c, into the vortex.

SG-1’s leader stood still, beside General (retired) Jacob Carter. Looking around at the carnage, the hundreds of dead Jaffa whose bodies littered the area around the Stargate, Colonel Jack O’Neill sighed. "Jacob?"

The Tok’ra turned to look at the Tau’ri Colonel. "Jack?"

O’Neill was looking off into the distance. "The boy, he’ll be all right?" Jack didn’t have to say the name, in fact, he still found it difficult to call the Reetou created child by his own son’s name.

Jacob knew who it was they were talking about. "Yes, Charlie is fine. He’s safe."

"You’re sure?" O’Neill’s tone was skeptical.

"Yes, Jack, I’m sure. Charlie and the Tok’ra science team he’s been living with are still on Bortran. There's absolutely no indication that their location has been compromised."

"There was no indication the Gould knew about Ravenna, either."

Jacob had to concede that point, and he nodded. "That’s true. There’s probably nowhere in the galaxy that’s truly safe these days. But you’ve been there to visit the boy. You know our people are well integrated into the native population. It’s the safest place we could find for him."

"I know," Jack toed at the dust with his booted foot, looking down. "It’s just--"

Jacob placed a hand on the taller man’s shoulder. "Jack, I *do* understand. You still feel responsible for the boy."

"I sent him to you," O’Neill’s dark eyes betrayed the uncertainty he still felt over that decision.

"Jack, you did what you had to do to save his life. And it wasn’t a bad choice. I of all people *know* that."

"I’m glad *you* do," O’Neill still wouldn’t meet the other man’s gaze. Finally, he raised his piercing dark eyes to bore into the face of the former United States Air Force general. "Just promise that if there’s ever a reason *to* worry, you’ll tell me. If he ever needs my help or anything--" he let the sentence trail away into silence.

"Absolutely. You can count on it."

"Selmak agrees?" the Colonel demanded one more assurance.

Jacob’s head dropped down, chin nearly touching his chest, then raised again, and the resonant voice of the Tok’ra symbiote answered, "Yes, Colonel O’Neill. If the time comes when Charlie needs help, we will call on you."

Jack nodded. "Thanks." Without another word, he climbed the stairs, weariness of this long and dark day weighting his steps and slowing his usually brisk stride. Reaching the event horizon, he turned for one last look around the planet, a planet of death and destruction, then stepped into the wormhole.

Jacob Carter watched him go.

/We may just have made a very an unwise promise,/ Selmak declared silently.

//Perhaps. But he cares for the boy.//

/Too much. Charlie is one of us now./

//O’Neill will never accept that.//

/He must./

Jacob chuckled silently. //He’s not one to take orders easily from anyone, let alone us.//

/True./

//Besides, Jack O’Neill is a formidable ally. Someday we may need his help. Someday we may be glad we made that promise.//

This time, it was Selmak who made the unuttered snort of derision. /It will be a sad day when the Tok’ra need to call upon him./

//It’s already a sad day for the Tok’ra, Selmak,// Jacob glanced wearily around the dusty planet, remembering all those who had so recently died there. //A very sad day//

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

He’d never much liked the Tok’ra.

He’d admitted that much of the truth to Jacob, back on the Alpha planet, when he’d had that strange conversation with the wounded former General.

And yeah, he’d also spoken the truth when he’d said that he did like Jacob, though Jack usually thought of Jacob as the human half, General Jacob Carter, rather than his Tok’ra symbiote, Selmak.

Selmak, in fact, usually let Jacob do all the talking around O’Neill, even before the whole disastrous incident with Kanan.

He wouldn’t say he hated the Tok’ra, but he’d never be comfortable around them. And he didn’t trust them, and he never would.

Never.

Forgiveness had never been his strong suit. He knew that, and in this case, it didn’t bother him in the slightest.

Now the Tok’ra had shown up here and presented him with a dilemma, because there was in fact one Tok’ra he did care about very much. The Reetou created boy, who’d asked to be called by his own dead son’s name, had stolen his heart. He’d thought that what was left of that heart would break in two, that long ago day when the boy had asked if he could be Jack’s son.

No one would ever know what it had cost him to turn down that offer, to turn away a lonely, frightened child. Yes, it had been the right thing to do, and he’d known it, but that hadn’t made it any easier on his already battered spirit.

Charlie, who’d trusted him. Charlie, frail and dying and alone, and he’d had to send the boy away with the Tok’ra, because human medicine wasn't able to fix him. Only the Tok'ra could heal him.

Jack had never been sure if he’d done it for the kid’s sake, or for his own, because he couldn’t bear to watch another child die.

He’d seen the kid a few times since then. Not often, because he hadn’t had much time for personal things in the last few years. Being in the middle of a war, even one that 99.999999 percent of the Earth's population was totally unaware of, pretty well consumed his time. And using the Stargate to travel for personal reasons was frowned upon by the bigwigs who pulled the strings at the SGC.

He had been able to keep his promise to stay friends with the boy, but their rare meetings had been awkward. The kid’s symbiote, Sha’ban, had been mostly silent, but Jack had always been acutely aware it was there. Eavesdropping. An intruder in what should have been private moments.

Though the symbiote had made Charlie well, and O’Neill appreciated that, it also made Jack uncomfortable. Blame it on his suspicious Tauri nature, on his own inability to accept aliens as, well, as anything other than aliens, but it had made each of his meetings with Charlie less than joyful reunions.

Then of course there’d been his own overcharged sense of guilt, Jack thought wryly. Guilt over sending the boy to the Tok’ra, guilt over agreeing to let the boy be imp…blended, guilt over not saving the boy’s ‘mother’ even if she was an alien, guilt over sending a parentless child to live among aliens, guilt over giving this kid his kid’s name, guilt over… well, just plain guilt, the whole huge honkin’ truckload of guilt he carried around with him every day.

No wonder his knees were shot and his back ached.

It was one heavy load.

Over the past three years, Jacob had kept him apprised of the boy’s condition. He’d updated Jack on Charlie’s progress, on the fact that, despite the Tok’ra being all too often on the run, Charlie was safe on a quiet backwater world, with a small group of Tok’ra scientists, their location known only to a few, and a well kept secret from the Goa’uld.

All had seemed well, until just a few moments ago.

/------------\/------------\

Jack O’Neill paced in front of the Stargate.

SG-1 was on P44-597, where Carter and Jonas were busy talking to the locals, negotiating for mining rights for what might be a sizeable deposit of naquadah.

Or might not.

Their mission had been simple… bring back samples of the ore while making nice to the locals, scoping out what they needed so Earth would know what to offer in trade. For three days now, Carter had been busily sampling, testing and muttering incomprehensible nine syllable words. But she’d been smiling, so Jack figured all the numbers, graphs and diagrams her computer doohickies were spitting out meant good things.

Jonas, meanwhile, was happily talking to the locals, smiling at them, which was good, since it meant he wasn’t talking to or smiling at Jack.

Teal’c was busy keeping an eye on both of them.

And Jack was bored.

Until this morning.

/-----------\

After breakfast, he’d left the others in the village and hiked back to the gate for the SOP morning check-in with the SGC and General Hammond.

Even O’Neill had to admit that it was a glorious morning. The golden sun was just now peeking over the horizon, illuminating the meadow that spread out before him. Dew sparkled on the grass that was so green it made your eyes ache. The trees waved slowly in the slight breeze. The air was fresh and clean, without the pollutants of Earth.

Hiking along briskly, Jack thought that this world, like so many he’d visited, wasn’t a bad place. Most people might even consider it beautiful, maybe even a paradise. And this mission, unlike so many over the past few months, had been simple and uncomplicated. No one was chasing them, shooting at them, locking them up, torturing him, er, them. With a shudder, he shook himself, banishing those memories to the back of his mind, way way to the back of his mind, in that deep dark corner where he hid all the ugly things he didn’t want to think about. It was getting damn full in that corner, near to overflowing actually. The past few months had added more, way too much more.

Reaching the Stargate at last, he dialed the symbols for Earth and waited impatiently while the gate kawooshed. The connection made, Jack leaned over the MALP, looking into the small camera lens. "Good morning, Cheyenne."

"Good morning, Colonel." The voice and face were familiar, Sergeant Walter Harriman, the SGC's senior gateroom technician. "General Hammond isn’t available this morning, Sir, he’s in a meeting with some, ah," Walter paused to think of the right word, "--guests-- from Washington."

"No problemo, Sergeant. There’s no need to interrupt the General. I’m delighted to report that since I called in yesterday, absolutely *nothing* of interest has happened. Nothing, nada, zip, zilch, not one single, solitary iota of newness."

"I’ll tell General Hammond that you had nothing new to report then, Colonel," summarized Walter.

"That’s good, Sergeant." On the verge of signing off, he suddenly added, "Hey, Walter, did you happen to get the Avalanche score from last night?"

"Sorry, Sir."

"Dang."

"I’ll be sure we have the score by your afternoon call-in, Colonel," Harriman added with a smile.

"Thanks, Walter. O’Neill out."

/-----\

Well, that had been a waste, walking all the way back to the gate to report nothing. Of course, the sad truth was, the alternative was to sit and watch Carter study rocks or Jonas study primitive stick paintings on the wall of the village temple, so going to the gate wasn’t so bad.

Made his knees ache, though.

Sighing, he sat down on the steps of the Stargate platform, dug into his vest pocket and pulled out a power bar. Snapping it in half, he neatly refolded the wrapping and put half back into his pocket before taking a bite out of the portion he’d kept out.

The things weren’t half bad, well, okay, compared to what he’d been given by the natives for breakfast this morning, it was haute cuisine.

Jack took a sip out of his canteen, and looked out over the meadow. The place would make a great baseball diamond, he thought suddenly, flat and level. The trees could be the left field fence, a good 320 feet, and the moss-covered rocks could be the right field fence, about 315 feet, and straightaway centerfield, it was about 420 feet to the creek. An intergalactic Wrigley Field.

In the middle of his musings, he was startled by a sudden loud ‘clank’ behind him.

"What the hell?" he jumped to his feet, pulling up his P-90 and spinning to look behind him. One of the gate’s chevrons was illuminated in bright red, and even as he stared, a second began to glow.

The gate was being opened!

"Son of a bitch!"

He spun and ran for cover, even though in the first stride he knew he’d never make the shelter of the distant trees. Opting for plan B, he threw himself down behind a small cluster of bushes that provided camouflage, but no effective protection. Still, it was his only option in the otherwise flat, open meadow.

More chevrons lit.

Jack lay on the damp grass, the P-90 aimed at the gate, his finger a hairsbreath from the trigger, drawing in air with steady, even, in-out breaths. He could feel the adrenaline surge through his system as his body prepared for a fight.

The gate kawooshed and settled back, the blue pool covering the gate rippling like water on a pond.

For long seconds, nothing happened.

The meadow seemed hushed and waiting. All he could hear was the harsh sound of his own breathing and the thump-thump of his hammering heart.

Jack squinted along the black barrel, the gunsights trained on the center of the shimmering liquid.

Just when he thought maybe nothing was going to happen, a single figure stumbled through, skidding to a halt, looking around as if searching for someone.

He was dressed in brown leather.

A Tok’ra.

The man turned, studying the horizon, and Jack recognized the face.

"Jacob?" Slowly, O’Neill climbed to his feet, gun still raised. "Jacob?" he called, louder.

The older man spun to face him, but instead of a smile of greeting there was a frown creasing his face. "Jack. I’m glad you’re here…"

O’Neill was already striding toward the gate. "How’d you find us?"

"Sam had asked us for information about this planet, before you started the negotiations," he answered quickly. "But how I got here isn’t important. I haven’t got much time. I’m afraid I have some bad news--"

"You guys are always bad news," Jack muttered.

"What?"

"Never mind. You were saying?"

"I was on a mission, where isn’t important at the moment, but I overheard some intel," he shook his head, worry plain. "I shouldn’t have left, I shouldn’t have risked using the gate, but I knew you’d want to know. Even if it’s too late."

"Too late for what?" Jack was worried now, too.

"Jack, it’s Bortran."

"Bortran?"

"There’s a Tok’ra base on Bortran, you remember…"

The name came out in a whisper. "Charlie…"

Jacob nodded. "Jack, a Goa’uld has taken over the planet. I don’t know if the Gould know about our base there or not. Hopefully, our people have gone into hiding. We’ve kept their location so top secret that none of the surviving Tok’ra have ever been there. You’re the only one I know of that can find them." He paused, and looked the Colonel in the eye. "If they’re still alive."

"Jacob…" He was on a mission, for cryin’ out loud, off-world with his team.

"Jack, I can’t stay. I’m already risking my own mission by coming here. I didn’t even have time to talk to George and officially ask for your help. All I can say is, if you’re interested, gate to Hakara within the next hour. I've arranged for a Tok'ra ship to be there to give you a lift--"

"Bortran has a Stargate," Jack reminded.

"It's in enemy hands. We can't get anyone through it."

"You haven’t sent anyone else?"

"Jack, we’ve been on the run for over a year now. The few of us who are left, we’re spread damn thin, you know that. I can’t even get a message to the High Council… It’s either you or no one…"

Jack nodded. "I’ll be there."

"Thanks."

Jacob turned to the DHD, dialed seven symbols, and turned back to O’Neill as the gate kawooshed to life once more. "Be careful."

"Always," the Colonel smirked.

Jacob trotted up the steps and disappeared into the gate.

/-----------\

As soon as the figure disappeared, Jack was moving. "Carter, Teal’c, Jonas, come in." Jack spoke into his radio.

"Sir? What’s up?" Carter’s voice answered.

"Pack up, we’re leaving."

"Sir, what’s wrong?"

"It’s a long story. Just get back here. ASAP."

A new voice interjected, "Colonel, I haven’t finished--"

"Jonas, I’m aware of that, but our time is up. I’ve got intel to report, and report now. Get back here as fast as you can."

"Sir. Even if we leave now, it will be at least 90 minutes--"

"Do your best, Major. O’Neill out."

Jack paced impatiently while he waited. He wanted to go, he wanted to go now, not wait the hour plus it would take the others to arrive. He would be too late to make the rendezvous on Hakara. But he couldn’t just abandon his team off-world, not even for Charlie.

Charlie.

He remembered the boy, the last time he’d seen him: brown, bright eyes, sparkling with life and good health.

Eyes that trusted him, that believed him when Jack told the boy to go with the Tok’ra; trusted him when he promised everything would be all right; believed him when he explained that he couldn’t stay with the boy, but he’d be there for him, whenever he was needed.

Though he wasn’t much of a boy any longer.

The Reetou had created him and subjected the child to accelerated growth. Together, those two things had almost killed him. Though the growth was now slowed to somewhere near normal, he’d aged six years in the last three. He wasn’t really a boy anymore, he was much more of a young man, healthy except for the bald head.

Jack smiled, thinking about the way the boy wore baseball caps to cover his head, always a baseball cap. Jack had taken him several, adding to Charlie's collection each time he went to visit.

Making a sudden decision, Jack dialed back to Earth, and transmitted SG-1’s iris code.

Surprise was evident in the sergeant’s voice when Harriman answered. "Colonel O’Neill?"

"Yes. I need to speak to General Hammond. Now. Interrupt his meeting if you have to, but this is urgent."

"Yes, Sir. He’ll be here in a few moments."

Jack paced while he waited for what seemed like hours, but he knew was actually only a few minutes.

Hammond sounded breathless. "Colonel? Is your team all right?"

"Yes, Sir. I’m cutting this mission short."

"Is there a problem, Colonel?"

"Yes, Sir. I just received a message from Jacob Carter. A Tok’ra base has been overrun, and he’s requested my assistance."

"Yours, Colonel?"

"Because it’s a base I’ve visited, Sir." Jack didn’t want to say too much, though he assumed the communications were safe.

"A base you’ve visited?" Hammond sounded puzzled.

"On, ah, unofficial business, General." O’Neill hinted. "The-- Reetou kid--"

"Yes, Colonel. I remember."

"Sir, I need to make contact within," Jack looked at his watch, "thirty minutes."

"Colonel, I understand your wishes here, but unfortunately, what you’re doing on that planet is important--"

"It can go on without me. In fact, we’re pretty much done here, and I’ve recalled my team."

"Colonel, you are *not* taking SG-1 off on some wild goose chase."

"Actually, Sir, I wasn’t planning on taking anyone but me. And it’s not a wild goose chase, General."

"Not that you know of," Hammond snapped. "Jack, what is the situation at the Tok’ra base?"

"Jacob didn’t know."

"So you could be walking into anything, anything at all. A trap. A whole army could be waiting for you."

"Maybe not."

"Maybe."

"If this is an official request of the Tok’ra, it should have been made to me. They normally use such channels. Are you sure this is legit?"

"Jacob delivered it himself, Sir. That’s as reliable as the Tok’ra get."

"So it was Jacob’s request, not the Council’s?"

"He said he was unable to contact the council." O’Neill’s face was grim. "Sir, I need to go."

Hammond paused, thinking. "Jack, I’m sorry, but I can’t authorize this. Not now. We’re in the midst of a war here, you know that, and there’s no time for a personal mission. And don’t tell me this isn’t personal--"

"The Tok’ra are our allies," O’Neill pointed out.

"Yes, and if the Council makes a request for assistance, I’ll do my best to honor it. But I can’t have my most senior team leader off on a jaunt to an unknown planet facing unknown dangers on a mission to rescue one person."

"That person is a boy I sent to them, Sir. I put him there, in harm’s way, with the Tok’ra. He’s my responsibility."

"Jack--"

"Sir, if you won’t give me official permission to go, then I respectfully request leave. I’ve got months worth I’ve never used, and you’re always telling me I should…"

"Colonel," Hammond’s voice had taken on its command tone. "This is neither the time nor place--"

Taking a deep breath, Jack made a decision. "No, Sir, it’s not. Time’s a wasting. I’ll be taking that leave. Now."

"Colonel O’Neill, you can just step through that gate and into my office. Now."

"Sir, sorry sir, what did you say? Your transmission is breaking up," Jack’s left hand had strayed to the MALPs microphone, and he was scraping a fingernail across it. "There seems to be a lot of static here, General. I did hear you say something about stepping through the gate. I take it that’s permission for my leave, Sir, and thank you. I'll be back as soon as I can. O’Neill out."

"Colonel O’Neill!" Hammond shouted futilely. "You will not--"

/-----\

"The wormhole has disconnected, Sir," Harriman stated softly.

"Sergeant, dial up that planet. Now."

Harriman began dialing as the General stared angrily at the Stargate, contemplating what he was going to do to his defiant second. He felt his blood pressure rising as he waited for the slow process, chevron one connecting, then two, three, four, five and six locking loudly into place.

The seventh failed.

"Sergeant?" he turned to the technician.

"I don’t know, Sir. The computer’s not showing any faults."

"Then why did the connection fail?"

"There could be a problem, Sir. Or…" Harriman paused.

"Spit it out, sergeant."

"Or the Stargate on P44-597 could have been dialing out."

Hammond glared once more at the silent alien artifact. His anger, though, wasn't focused on the Stargate. Jack O’Neill had gone too far this time.

/------------\

As soon as he’d shut down the gate’s wormhole to Earth, Jack began dialing the coordinates Jacob had given him. Digging through his vest, he found a notebook and pencil, scribbling a quick note to his team. He wasn’t going to make them parties to what he was doing, he wasn’t even going to give them a chance to argue with him, or the opportunity to follow. "Gone after Charlie. Hammond knows details. I’ll be back, kids. O’Neill." He set the note on the DHD, where his team was sure to find it.

With one last look around, Jack trotted up the stone steps and into the wormhole.

Gun up and pointed, O’Neill emerged onto an unfamiliar planet, though it seemed a typical Tok’ra choice: dry, hot, dusty and rocky.

There was no sign of a ship, or of any Tok’ra.

No sign of anything much at all, he thought worriedly.

And then, several hundred yards away and off to his left, something shimmered and a tel’tac appeared. As Jack watched cautiously, his P-90 raised and aimed, the door opened and a figure began walking towards him. O’Neill kept his weapon trained on the approaching stranger.

He wasn’t a complete stranger, actually, the Colonel realized with relief. The face was vaguely familiar, one of the Tok’ra refugees who’d shown up on the alpha site, with Jacob and Malik.

"Greetings Colonel O’Neill. I am Barlex."

The distinctive harmonic voice still sent shivers down Jack’s spine. He was *never* going to be comfortable with the Tok’ra, not after Kanan. Just thinking the name made his skin crawl.

"Jacob was able to contact me. I will provide transportation for you to your destination." The Tok’ra, a short, blonde haired man, looked around. "You are alone? I had anticipated that your team would be accompanying you."

"They were busy. It’s just me, so let’s get going then, huh?"

Once aboard the ship, Jack hovered uncomfortably in the background as Barlex stepped up to the controls and lifted off. "It will take only a few hours to arrive. You may rest there if you like," he pointed to the cargo hold.

"Fine," Jack looked around the ship, as always a simple, gold impersonal space, and waved a hand at the bare walls. "You know, you really ought to personalize these things a little. Family photos, a Cubs pennant, velvet picture of Elvis. Something."

Barlex looked oddly at his passenger as the human walked toward the back of the ship. The Tauri, he thought, were indeed very strange creatures.

/------------\

Jack slept. It was an old military habit, one that he’d learned long ago: sleep when you can before a mission, because once you were on the ground, you never knew when you’d get another chance to rest. It had taken him a long time to doze off, though, thinking about what he’d done. Hammond was pretty tolerant with him under most circumstances, damn tolerant, actually. He was even pretty sure that, if he’d had the time to explain this to Hammond, he probably could have gotten the general see things his way. But there hadn’t been time.

It was quite likely, okay, more like certain, that he’d pushed the limits too far this time. But he’d needed to do this, and he didn’t have time to waste on explanations. If he’d gone back to Earth, and Hammond had said no, and he might have, Jack acknowledged, most likely he’d have been unable to get away. Sure, he knew how to dial up a DHD, but the computer system back at the SGC was way over his head, *and* loaded with security that would have slowed if not stopped any attempt to leave without authorization. He’d have needed to involve someone else, like Carter or Harriman, and he didn’t want anyone else implicated in his disobedience.

Hell, he could be court-martialed for what he’d done.

Quite probably would be.

Of course, he’d have to survive whatever the hell mess he was walking into first.

/------------\

The subtle change in the steady thrum of the ship’s engines woke him. O’Neill stood, stretching, back creaking ominously, and walked up to the front of the ship. A large, blue very Earth-like planet filled the view screen.

"We have arrived at Bortran," Barlex informed him. "Selmak indicated to me that you have been here before, and know the way."

"From the Stargate."

Barlex nodded. "I will ring you down. The ring platform is approximately 11 of your miles from the Stargate. I was able to secure native clothing and some supplies for you, but once you are on the planet, you will be on your own."

"Right," Jack was looking over at the pile of gear. There was food, a small first aid kit that included Tok’ra medicines he’d seen Jacob use before, as well as some basic Earth items. The clothing didn’t look too bad, and a long cloak-like coat with hood would both conceal his face and hide his weapons. He’d keep his boots, though, figuring once they were dirty and dusty enough, they wouldn’t be too conspicuous. "How do we rendezvous?"

"There is a communications device in the pack. Use it to call me. I will return in three of this planet’s days, and remain here for three days. If I have not received a message from you, I must return to my assignment. It will be ten days before I can return again."

Jack digested that information. It was a schedule that didn’t leave him much time to reach the Tok’ra base, assess the situation, and deal with any problems. Optimistically, if the Tok’ra were simply in hiding waiting for someone to come for them, it could be done. If they’d had to bug out, or been taken by the Gould, it was going to be tricky.

"Do you understand, O’Neill?"

"Yup. Three days from now, you’ll be back for three days, then a ten day wait before you return."

"The planet has several ring platforms. Scans show this one is unused, and there are no life signs in the vicinity. Good luck, Colonel O’Neill."

Jack nodded. Picking up the gear, he stepped to the ship’s ring platform, and nodded, watching as Barlex activated the alien devices.

It was the last time he saw the Tok’ra.

/------------\

The rings deposited O’Neill outside in a park-like setting. As soon as he felt the stone solidify beneath his booted feet, he dropped and rolled away from the platform, rising to his knees, the P-90 aimed outward. Seeing no one, he grabbed his pack and trotted into the nearby forest. As soon as he reached the cover of the trees, Jack turned a hard left and jogged several hundred yards before dropping down into a defensive position on a rocky knoll overlooking the ring platform.

Quiet prevailed.

Suddenly, high above, a streak of light raced across the sky, and another and another.

Weapons fire, above the planet, it could only be aimed at the Tok’ra ship.

"Damn it," he muttered with sudden dismay as a huge bright flare exploded in the sky, long streaks of orange fire dropping down into the atmosphere. Jack had seen enough planes explode to know he’d just witnessed the tel’tac disintegrating.

He was alone now, with no ride home.

/------------\

Jack waited an hour, nerves taut, eyes scanning the clearing around the ring platform and the nearby woods, but there was no sign of movement. Finally, he picked up his gear once again, and started toward the village the Tok’ra scientists and their young companion had called home for the past several years.

He made his way easily through the silent forest. This was something he’d done hundreds of times over the years, moved through enemy territory undetected. Hunker down, study the path ahead, move a short distance to the next area of concealment, scan the terrain before moving; steps repeated over and over again as he made his way cautiously toward his destination.

He met no one.

Once he saw figures moving far away along a distant road, but other than that, he might as well have been alone on the planet.

It was an eerie feeling.

He figured that he'd traveled a good dozen miles or more before night fell. He estimated he was still at least five or six miles from the village as he paused to make a cold camp. Opening the MRE that had been in his backback, he heated and ate the stew, then dug a hole and buried the wrappings and trash. Stomach full, he huddled beneath the shelter of a downed tree, curled up in his blanket and cloak, and slept.

O’Neill awoke before dawn. The sky was ablaze with alien stars and a tiny reddish moon was just setting. Rolling up his blanket, he picked up his few supplies and started on toward the Tok’ra base, eager to reach his destination.

The land here was gently rolling hills, dotted now with more clearings and less forest, trees standing only in small, scattered patches. He was forced to proceed more cautiously, patiently studying the wide meadows before crossing the open expanses.

Ahead, he could see the range of higher hills where the Tok’ra base was located, amid the village of sturdy wooden homes. They looked like something out of Europe in the Middle Ages, he’d thought when he’d visited the first time, the peaked roofed buildings crisscrossed with dark wooden beams. There had been twenty-some Tok’ra in the village, living quietly among the natives, working on some science project he knew nothing, and cared nothing, about.

He didn’t let himself worry too much about the loss of his ride off the planet. There was a Stargate here, and sure, it would be guarded, but Jack knew he could find a way to get the Tok’ra there. Then it was just a matter of creating a diversion, dialing up the gate, and heading out for the alpha site.

Piece of cake.

Yeah, right.

/------------\

O’Neill smelled it long before he arrived.

The smoke couldn’t mask the distinctive, sickly sweet odor he knew only too well.

His stomach curled, not at the bitterness of the smell, but at the bitterness of failure.

He was too late.

The village was a smoking ruin. The distinctive scorched pattern on the remains of the first house he came to showed only too clearly that staff weapons had done the initial damage. Of the neat homes he remembered, nothing remained except charred beams and scattered, blackened lumps of what must have been the family’s meager possessions.

He found the first bodies there, burned beyond recognition, bloated now, ugly grotesque things that looked barely human.

Hurrying up the street, he came to the neighborhood which had been Charlie’s home.

Jack stopped, and stared.

The whole street was destroyed, all the homes where the Tok’ra had lived reduced to piles of still smoldering rubble. Even the barn where they’d carried out their secret experiments had met the same fate.

More bodies lay in the street, unrecognizable in their state of advanced decay. Jack took out his bandanna, tying it over his nose and mouth, but that only blunted the fetid odors of death.

He forced his unwilling feet to carry him up the street and to the quaint house where Charlie had lived. It was a charred mess. He stepped inside, heedless of the danger of the sagging portion of roof that hung precariously above him. One body lay there, halfway under the collapsed section of the wall. Jack thought it was the boy’s Tok’ra foster father, but owing to the battered condition of the remains, he couldn’t be sure.

Charlie’s room was over there, down the hallway.

Something lay on the floor.

A bundle of cloth, he told himself, that was all it was.

But he knew better.

The body lay sprawled in the doorway, as if he’d been trying to escape.

There was no way to identify the remains, this body had been far too severely damaged by the flames even before decomposition had set in.

Jack didn’t need to see the face, however, because when he glanced down, there, halfway under the blackened hand was a baseball cap. Ash covered the charred bright blue cloth and obscured the gaudy red C on its front.

He’d brought Charlie that cap the last time he’d been here to visit, a Chicago Cubs baseball cap. The kid had loved it, happily declaring the ‘C’ stood for Charlie.

Jack hadn’t told him otherwise.

The boy had worn it every minute of every day that Jack had spent here two years ago.

The kid had promised he’d treasure it forever.

Suddenly, Jack couldn’t breathe.

It was as if all the oxygen had been sucked out of the air, leaving it empty and useless.

Charlie.

This couldn’t be.

But it was.

Jack stood frozen, staring down at another dead child.

Another Charlie. Gone, like his own son Charlie a victim of his carelessness. Gone like his friend, Charlie, who’d died by Jack’s own hand, on the Stargate platform. And now, this Charlie, dead, too.

Because of him.

A child who had depended on him, who'd counted on him, a child he’d sent to the Tok’ra, sent here to meet his death.

Another death, another black mark, charged against his soul.

Another loss.

Another failure.

*His* failure

Bile rising suddenly in his throat, he stumbled out of the ruins and back into the street, the cloying smell of death everywhere around him. Sinking to his hands and knees, O'Neill began to retch. Spasms shook him, choking him. His eyes watered from the intensity of the cramps, his vision blurred, his arms and legs felt weak and useless. Sweat dampened his shirt and rolled down his face.

With one hand he angrily brushed the wetness from his face, denying there could be any tears there.

Finally, his stomach empty, he pushed himself shakily to his feet and staggered out of the village, away from the stench of death and decay, and into the clean, bright greenery of the forest.

/-----------\

O'Neill slept poorly that night, troubled by terrible nightmares. A small hand kept reaching out of the darkness, reaching for him, needing his help. A small voice, muffled by the sounds of battle, called out to him; sometimes, it sounded like "Jack" sometimes, "Dad".

It didn’t matter.

Either way, it was another doomed Charlie.

Doomed by his actions, doomed by his failure to do the right thing, doomed by his not being there when he was needed.

He tried to tell himself that it wasn’t his fault, that if the Tok’ra couldn’t protect the boy, how could he? But it didn’t matter. He couldn’t convince himself that he wasn’t to blame.

He’d sent Charlie away, sent an innocent child into danger.

Just like he’d bought that gun and left the drawer unlocked.

He hadn’t pulled the trigger then, like he hadn’t now.

But it was his fault, all the same.

Unable to sleep, he gathered his few possessions and started walking toward his only way home, the Stargate. From his previous visit, he knew it should take about two hours, but, keeping off the roads and avoiding any contact with natives or the invaders, he’d have to figure the journey would take twice that, or more.

His calculations, it turned out, were just a bit off.

/-----------\

It turned out to be slow going.

Once he’d left the Tok’ra’s destroyed homes, Jack followed the road toward the larger town located near the Stargate. There were more people there, or should be, he remembered. The farms he passed, however, looked deserted. Weeds grew in the fields, untended crops were dead and dying, pastures stood empty, and homes were clearly deserted, those that weren’t burned to the ground.

The real problem, however, was the Jaffa patrols.

The only thing that saved him the first time was the noise they made as they approached. That gave him time to dash into cover before the warriors rounded the bend in the road. There were four of them, riding large animals that looked like big camels without the humps or small elephants without the ears and trunks… large, ungainly, sturdy, but surprisingly swift creatures.

O’Neill hung back in the brush and watched them pass by.

They were proceeding at a steady trotting pace, watching alertly, for what he wasn’t sure. Were the locals fighting back, waging a guerilla war of sorts? Or were they looking for something or someone? No one knew he was here. Barlex’s ship had been shot down, he couldn’t have told them anything.

Unless, of course, they’d had some way of knowing the ring transporter had been activated.

Was he the object of their search?

As it turned out they weren’t looking for him, but it didn’t matter in the long run.

/-----------\

Evading the patrols was simple, but time consuming. Twice more that morning, he’d had to move back into concealment and wait while a patrol passed by.

And then his luck deserted him.

Wasn’t that the way it always happened?

Exhausted by his sleepless night and with the heat of the midday sun pounding down on him, Jack decided to take a break. He needed to plan, anyway, because ahead of him was a wide river. There was a town on the other side which seemed to be a major crossroads. Jaffa patrols moved along both roads. He watched for a while, then settled in for a nap, counting on his always heightened senses to let him know if anyone approached.

Tired as he was, he slept fitfully and woke feeling better but still weary. He knew that had as much to do with the failure of his mission as with his lack of good rest.

Jack resumed his careful watch of the roads and finally decided he would have to go around the town. Even after dark, he wouldn’t dare risk going into the town, which, unlike all the other places he’d passed, seemed to be still populated.

Waiting until after sunset, O’Neill once more began to travel, slipping through the trees along the hillside away from the cluster of houses. He followed the river downstream, looking for a place to cross. Again, he had to take cover from a patrol on the nearby road, melting hurriedly back into the brush along an abandoned farm field. Crouching as he worked his way carefully along a partially ruined stonewall, one ear tuned to the noise of the approaching patrol, he stumbled right into the others.

"Kree!"

Crap. Jack didn’t understand the rest of the shouted command. Probably an order to stop he assumed as he ignored the shout, spun on his heels, and ran back along the wall. Slipping over the top at a spot where several stones had fallen into a jumble, he ducked as a staff weapon blast whipped past his head. Zigzagging, he dodged into the sparse cover of the weedy, abandoned field, more shouts and shots following him. Gasping for air, he ran on another hundred yards, legs pumping, then executed a 90 degree change of direction, turning hard to his right. Slowing, forcing his breathing to relax to something close to normal, he moved more cautiously, trying not to disturb the plants, hoping to evade his pursuers.

They were behind him, combing through the field, shouting back and forth to each other.

He just might make it, he thought.

And then he reached the end of the field.

"Damn," he muttered, turning to look for another option.

Too late.

One of the Jaffa emerged from the tall weeds, charging at him, shouting.

Swinging the P-90 out from under his cloak, he shot the alien warrior at point blank range.

The Jaffa went down, and lay still.

Before Jack could run, there were others, too many others. He shot another, and then a third and a fourth but they kept coming until they were on him, taking him down by sheer power of numbers. Something impacted his head and he saw stars. Jack crashed to his knees, dazed and confused. Another blow, to his side this time, drove all the air from his lungs. Curling into a ball, Jack tried to protect himself as best he could as more blows rained down on his back, shoulders and head.

"Stop! Do not damage him too severely. Our Lord needs slaves for the mine."

He was grabbed roughly, his hands and ankles bound, then thrown over a Jaffa’s shoulder in a fireman’s carry.

"Hey…" he started to protest, but a gloved hand cuffed him above the ear and he sank into the blackness of oblivion.

/------------\

O’Neill awoke to darkness, his head pounding unmercifully and every part of his body aching. Sliding his eyelids open just a fraction, he tried to see where he was. He was moving slowly, riding on a rough something that smelled of dust and excrement and exotic animals. Beneath him, there were rough boards that made up the body of the wooden-wheeled cart he was traveling in. Moving his head slightly, he could see a pair of the native beasts walking in front of him and the back of a man who must be driving them.

The wagon hit a rock, and he was thrown roughly against the side of the conveyance, a low groan rolling unbidden from his throat. He stifled it immediately.

Jack rode like that for a long time, hours he thought, before they stopped. Strange clanking noises, muffled thuds and sighs sounded from behind him, but without lifting his head, he couldn’t see over the edge of the cart to get a glimpse of who or what was making the noise.

It was a relief to be stopped, though, to have the endless bouncing, jolting, skull-thumping ride end.

Nothing happened for several moments, and then he heard a rider approach.

Jack lay still, feigning continued unconsciousness, listening.

Another noise, the back of the cart opening, he assumed.

Loud, harsh words in a language he didn’t understand, possibly addressed at him.

Suddenly, a hand grabbed his foot, and he found himself being pulled backward, off the cart. In midair, he twisted instinctively, trying to cushion his landing.

He hit hard, face down in the dirt, the wind knocked out of him.

The Jaffa laughed, digging a boot into his ribs.

Hands grabbed him, far too many of them for him to fight, and dragged him away from the cart.

With horror, Jack discovered the source of the odd noises he’d heard. Two long, heavy chains were hooked to the back of the rude cart he’d been riding in. Fastened to them by short lengths of chain attached to their wrists were dozens of men, sitting in the road, heads hanging in exhaustion.

He was being dragged back along the line to become one of them.

No way, no way in hell-- Jack dug in his heels, managing to pull one arm out of the Jaffa’s grasp, but the other was held tight. He spun, aiming a kick at his enemy, only vaguely hearing another unfamiliar sound as if something cut through the air behind him. Just as his boot connected to the Jaffa’s jaw, something struck him in the back, a stinging blow that drove him off his feet, forcing him to his hands and knees in the dusty road. Before he could recover, they had hold of him again, dragging him back to an empty spot in line.

From the corner of his eye, he saw the dead body lying along the road, and knew he was taking its place.

He was shoved to the ground and thick chains fastened tightly around his wrists.

Without a backward glance, the Jaffa walked away, back to their waiting mounts.

Around him, none of the other captives said a word, watching him only with hopeless, empty eyes.

Jack was checking the fastenings on the cuffs around his wrists, pulling futilely at the chains when he heard shouts from the front of the column, up near the wagon. As he watched, the vehicle lurched into motion. The men around him staggered upright as the chain was pulled forward.

Taken by surprise, Jack was too slow. He was pulled off his feet, tearing the skin on his wrists, wrenching his back and shoulders. He scrambled to get his feet under himself, to catch his balance, and relieve the pressure on his arms.

The animals pulling the cart set a slow but steady pace.

"Guess I’m going to get the fifty cent tour of Bortran, huh?" he muttered to those around him.

No one answered.

/------------\

They walked without rest for hours. Dust rose in choking clouds from the hundreds of feet trudging down the road. Jack licked his lips, and wished desperately for a drink. He hadn’t had any water since before his capture, which had been late last night. It was midday now, the sun mercilessly beating down on the men. Legs aching with weariness, wrists burning from the dragging weight of the heavy chains, they plodded silently onward.

One among many, Jack stumbled on.

Finally, as the sun sank into the west, or the direction Jack had decided to call west, they came to a small stream.

The driver turned the beasts off the road, pulling up alongside the waterway. Around him, the weary men scrambled forward toward the water, elbowing each other in their desperation to reach the life-giving fluid. He had no choice but to join them, dragged with them even if he, too, hadn’t been equally desperately in need.

As the men surged forward into the stream, they churned up the silty bottom, the clear water quickly turning muddy, but that didn’t stop them.

Jack plunged his hands into the liquid, scooping it up to his mouth, sipping slowly, letting it soak into his desert dry mouth and throat.

He wasn’t sated when there was another shout, and the chain moved, dragging the men out of the water, and out into a small clearing.

The Jaffa were setting up camp.

/-----\

The prisoners sat on the grass. The long chain was still attached to the cart from which the beasts had been unhooked, fed and watered, Jack noted with envy. The free end of the chain had been secured to a tree and two of the Jaffa stood guard, staff weapons in hand. His captors had started a fire, and O’Neill’s mouth watered as the smell of food wafted over the line of prisoners.

Finally, after the Jaffa had eaten, one of them started along the line with a bag, handing out small, thick round discs. The men grabbed them, stuffing them into their mouths.

Jack had to scramble to get his, ending up with only half a piece. The material was dry and tasteless, but he forced it down, chewing carefully. When he was done, having licked every last crumb off his fingers, his stomach still growled with hunger.

The camp grew dark.

Needing to relieve himself, he could only copy the others he’d seen, standing at the end length of the chains, staring out into the darkness and pretending he was alone. Done, he moved back into line, picked a spot of grass, and curled up to sleep.

The cold woke him. He could hear the other men shivering, see that many had pulled themselves in closer to each other to share what little warmth they could manage.

Despite his discomfort, exhaustion claimed him, and he slept again, fitfully.

/-----------\

At dawn, the Jaffa walked through the lines of chained men, cuffing those who didn’t rise quickly enough. Jack climbed stiffly to his feet, his bruises from the day before aching dully as once again the beasts were hitched to the cart and driven forward. The men were allowed a brief drink in the stream, then marched forward once more.

/-----------\

They’d been marching forever, or so it seemed.

Mile after mile, hour after hour, three days now, with only what little water they could scoop from the streams they crossed, and, in the evening, the one dry cake of food stuff.

Jack’s wrists were raw from the constant pull of the chains, his knee throbbed with a steady dull ache, dust and grime coated him everywhere. Rain during the night had turned the road from dust to a clinging, slippery mudhole, making every step an effort.

A Jaffa rode by, angrily shouting orders.

Around him, the others hunched their shoulders and trudged forward, heads down.

More words he didn’t understand were seemingly directed at him. He wasn’t sure if the Jaffa had it in for him, if they picked on him because he couldn’t follow their orders, or if it was just that amazing ability he had to attract the attention of sadistic bad guys on any planet.

Behind him, he heard the snap of displaced air a fraction of a second before his captor’s lash stroked across his back. Pain flared hotly, the blow staggering him. Unbalanced by the weight of the shackles he stumbled to his knees, the hard fall adding a new source of pain to his knees as the whip struck him again. Being on the ground offered only a momentary respite, and at a price. The heavy chains dragged him forward, tearing more skin off his already raw wrists.

/------------\

The procession paused for no one, not the hurt, not the dying, not even the dead, O'Neill had learned that first day. They’d dragged the corpses along, sometimes for miles before finally pausing to throw the dead into the brush along the trail.

He was one cog in the wheel, just another body among the hundreds of hopeless souls all chained together, like beads on a string. No one knew his name, no one cared who he was or where he was from. He was just another slave destined for the naquadah mines.

/-----------\

On the fifth day, so weary he wasn’t sure he could drag his carcass another ten steps, they finally reached their destination.

Crossing over a heavy wooden bridge, the slaves were marched up a small hill and into a small city.

The end of one hellish journey heralded the beginning of another, Jack thought dismally as he was dragged into the walled compound.

The cart stopped.

The remaining slaves, far fewer now than the original 200, sank exhaustedly to their knees.

One by one, the captives were unhooked from the long chain, their wrist shackles left in place. In groups of ten to fifteen, they were taken over to stand in front of someone else, a clean, gaudily dressed human with an imperious attitude.

Even in the sorry shape he was in, O’Neill recognized this—creature-- for what it was.

Then the mouth opened and words poured out and there was no doubt.

A Goa’uld.

The alien spoke in the planet’s native language, so Jack had no idea what he was talking about. He let his mind and his eyes wander, judging the height of the stockade walls, noting the location of the guards, some of whom seemed human, not Jaffa, seeking any possible bit of information he might somehow be able to use to his advantage.

A shout brought his attention back to the—being-- in front of him. Rage filled the voice, a snarl curled the lip as the Gould moved to stand directly in front of Jack, his stance and tone demanding an answer.

O'Neill didn’t have a clue what the snake wanted him to say.

And wouldn’t have answered if he did.

He wasn’t going to go meekly into this hellhole. He’d been enslaved once before, on Shyla’s planet, and even with his team there he’d damn near died. Alone on this planet, with no hope of help within a dozen lightyears, he knew only that he would rather go down fighting than have his life sucked slowly away by the endless toil in the dark of the mine.

Unable to comprehend the angry words aimed at him, Jack simply lifted his chin and stared defiantly back.

The next thing he knew he was lying on the ground, his head ringing, his jaw aching from the backhanded slap. Staggering, he pushed himself to his feet, dizzy.

The Goa’uld spoke again, shouted actually.

He shrugged.

The snake switched languages. O"Neill recognized the guttural tones of the Goa’uld language but didn’t understand a word of that either.

Jack shrugged once more.

The snake stared suspiciously at him, rattling off another string of incomprehensible words.

O’Neill simply smiled at the alien, and said what he’d always wanted to say to every last one of the freakin’ snakes for the past six years. "Fuck you, you egotistical, delusional overbearing piece of shit."

The Goa’uld looked surprised, then he smiled. "You are a Tau’ri! How did a Tau'ri get here? Ah, but it does not matter. Soon, you will be a dead Tau’ri, now that you are the property of Lord Min." Nodding, he pointed at one of the Jaffa, who stepped forward and reached out to take hold of Jack’s arm.

O’Neill spun, viciously swinging the short chain connecting his wrists in an arcing loop, directly into the face of the unsuspecting Jaffa. The warrior went down in a heap, and Jack lunged toward the snakehead.

Exhausted and hurt, he was a step too slow.

The creature thrust out his hand, fingers splayed wide, and a beam of light shot out, striking Jack in the chest.

O’Neill flew backwards, landing awkwardly on his back, his head bouncing off the ground and the air driven from his lungs. Stunned, unable to get up, the Jaffa took hold of his arms, dragging him roughly to his feet.

"I cannot let such disrespect for me go unpunished." Min waved at a post and chains standing to the side of the courtyard. "You will pay, Tau’ri. You will be made an example of, to show the others the price of disobedience. I will not kill you, because your body is strong, and it is much more to my benefit for you to be able to work. Like the others here, you will serve me. But first, you will know pain." He turned to the Jaffa. "Ten lashes. Just to give him a taste."

Still trying to draw adequate air into his lungs, Jack refrained from mentioning that he already knew pain. He didn’t think the observation would impress the snake in the slightest.

O’Neill was dragged across the compound to the post, his hands jerked high above his head, his chained wrists fastened to a hook that his searching fingers couldn’t quite reach.

"Tighter," sneered the Goa’uld, and the Jaffa, smiling, ratcheted Jack’s wrists higher, forcing him to stand stretched upward, all but on his tiptoes to keep the pressure off his wrists and hands.

"Always wanted to be… taller," O’Neill gasped, watching warily as the warrior drew his knife.

Stepping behind the bound man, he slid the cold steel against the man’s neck.

Jack held his breath.

The knife scored downward, slicing through the coarse fabric of the native shirt Barlex had given him, through the black t-shirt he wore beneath, scoring across his skin from neck to waist. The shirt was stripped off his now bare back.

Nothing happened for long moments. Unable to see behind him, Jack listened, hearing the Jaffa’s heavy footsteps, then odd snapping sounds he didn’t recognize. He craned his neck around as far as he could, but his movement was severely limited by the awkward way he was forced to stand.

O’Neill braced himself for what was to come.

He didn’t jump at the first crack of the whip behind him, though he bit down on his lip. Once more, the whip cracked, the tip flicking through the air just inches from his ear.

The Jaffa was toying with him, giving him time to anticipate.

Well, he’d played this particularly sadistic game before, and he could--

The first blow took him by surprise.

It wasn’t as bad as he expected, frankly, more shocking than painful. Sharp and stinging. Nasty, but he could handle this. Only nine more.

The tip of the lash must be weighted, he told himself as it struck the top of his left shoulder, scoring down his back.

He could do this. Only eight more.

The next blow struck his right shoulder, slanting across his back, cutting down toward his left hip.

Painful. But he’d been through worse. He could contain it. Only seven more.

His right shoulder, again, harder this time, hard enough that he staggered and momentarily lost his balance, all his weight crashing downward, the brunt of the impact rattling the bones of his wrists and hands. That hurt worse than the initial blow.

Climbing up off his knees, weaving his way back onto his feet, Jack told himself he could bear this. Only six more.

He knew this one was trouble in the split second before it struck. The lash whistled through the air louder this time, the tip striking his left shoulder, cutting across the red welts made by the earlier blows, angling toward his right hip, harder and deeper than any of the other lashes which had proceeded it. The air whooshed out of his lungs, his legs collapsed, he bit his lip to keep from crying out because, son of a bitch, that hurt.

He… could… endure this. Only five more. Halfway.

He was still trying to regain his feet when the next stroke sang through the air. Crisscrossing his back, the lash bit into the skin, tearing it open. Jack felt the tiny beads of blood form and begin dripping down his back.

He could beat this. He could. Over the hump now. Only four more. Piece of cake.

Behind him, Jack heard the Jaffa muttering. He did not sound pleased.

O’Neill braced himself.

The lash snapped through the air, whistling, biting into and across his back with such force he was driven off his feet. He felt more skin tear open, more blood trickling out.

He couldn’t get back to his feet this time, his shaking legs wouldn’t obey him. His hands were numb, his shoulders radiating pain from the weight of his body dragging against them.

He…could…hold on. Only three more.

When the lash struck once more, he bit his lip to keep from giving voice to the pain, the hot, coppery taste of blood flowing in his mouth like the blood that ran down his back. Funny, the sun didn’t feel hot anymore. It felt cold. He shivered.

He could survive this. Only two more.

Still battling to control the pain of the last blow, he didn’t hear the next one coming. Striking at the base of his neck, scoring down his back, across the backbone and toward his hip, the lash flayed open more skin.

It was all he could do not to scream, not to beg for it to stop, as he gasped for breath, for air, for control.

There was only one more left.

He…could…do…this. Only one more.

One.

Time seemed suspended, suspended like he was, wrapped in a world bounded only by the pain. Do it, damn it, get it over with. End this.

The anticipation of the last blow nearly unnerved him, nearly made him lose the last fragile strands of control.

He wanted it to be over. Only one more.

Finish it. The words were on his lips, ready to be said.

And then the blow landed, the long end of the whip wrapping itself around his torso, chest and back, scoring across what had been undamaged flesh, the intensity of the pain driving the breath from his lungs.

No more.

No more left.

Jack heard the Jaffa approaching, and with the last of his strength, he drew his legs underneath himself so that when the alien unhooked the chains, he didn’t fall, but stood, leaning weakly against the post, but upright. Pride, if not skin, remained intact.

He was dragged forward then, stumbling and staggering, but with sheer stubborn determination, forced himself to remain essentially upright. Finally, the Jaffa tripped him and he was thrown to the ground in front of the Goa’uld.

Min leaned forward, fastened a hand in the short gray hair, and pulled the man’s head up, noting the triumphant look in the dark eyes. "You will die, Tau’ri, but only after you have served me long and well," he whispered. Raising his voice to the Jaffa guards, he ordered, "Take him to the pens. He’ll work in the morning, if he wishes to eat."

/------------\

Jack let the guards carry most of his weight across the courtyard, leaning groggily against their bulk while they opened a massive, double bolted door. He was pushed inside, sliding down to land on his butt, trying to protect his back. He lay still while he heard the door slammed and the locks locking behind him.

Raising his head, he saw he was in a large open area ringed by high, thick walls. To one side there was a shed, little more than a lean to which provided shade from the searing heat of the midday sun. With a groan, he crawled forward into a dark corner, curled up, and tried to sleep.

He heard the others come in at dusk, slow, exhausted, dust covered, smelling of sweat and despair. He didn’t raise his head but only opened his eyes to look at them through his lashes. Few of them looked at him, it seemed they lacked the energy to do anything but stagger to their beds.

Not that they had real beds. Here and there along the wall blankets had been rolled into small bundles, worn and meager things. The others simply, like Jack, curled up on the sand and went to sleep.

/----------\

The sky was just beginning to brighten to the east when the shouting began. Jack heard a whip crack as the doors were opened, the Jaffa and several guards entering.

O’Neill honestly didn’t know if he could get to his feet. His back was one fiery mass of torn flesh, every muscle in his shoulders cramped. Unable to fully straighten, he stood hunched over, forced forward by the sheer weight of humanity as the slaves shuffled toward the gate.

He was put to work moving rock, part of a long human chain passing the naquadah laced stones from hand to hand, up out of the mine and into carts to be hauled away by others.

Water was brought to them twice during the day.

Breakfast was more of the dry, tasteless cakes he’d eaten while traveling to the mine. There was no lunch. The evening meal was a thin, pasty gruel and rock-hard bread.

The day passed in endless drudgery that was quickly destined to become the measure of his existence.

Reach, grasp, turn, pass the rock into waiting hands. Reach, grasp, turn, pass the rock into waiting hands. Reach, grasp, turn, pass the rock into waiting hands.

Day after day, rise to work from dawn to dusk, eat the meager meals of bread and gruel, and fall asleep exhausted as darkness fell.

O’Neill watched always for a chance to escape, noted everything about how the mine was run and how the workers were treated. He tried to talk to some of them, but either they didn’t understand, or they were too weary to care.

Some of them died.

New slaves came to replace them.

As the days passed, his already lean frame grew leaner. Jack’s steely gray short hair grew long and lank, his beard grizzled, his skin darkened by sun and ground in dirt, and washed only by the rain.

Every day he watched and waited and bided his time.

And then he made a mistake.

He made a friend.

/------------\

The snake must be getting desperate for slaves, Jack realized. The last group brought in had been mostly old men and a few youngsters, mere boys. And one small boy-- frightened, alone. It was hard to calculate the youngster’s age, maybe 10 or 11, maybe even younger, if he was big for his age.

That night, Jack stumbled over to sit beside the boy and, though his own belly ached with hunger, gave him half his bread.

"Eat."

The child had blue eyes and blonde hair, like another little boy-- don’t go there, Jack, he warned himself.

"Don't be scared, I won’t hurt you," he tried to put gentleness into his voice. He pointed at himself. "My name is Jack." Then he pointed at the boy. "You? Your name?"

The boy said nothing.

"Jack," he tried again, pointing at his chest, then pointing at the boy, raising an eyebrow in question.

The boy remained mute.

Jack sighed and with a grime covered hand, patted the boy's head gently. "It’s okay, kid. You don’t have to talk until you’re ready. I know I’m pretty scary looking, but I clean up really well." The child said nothing, just stared and shivered, but in the end, he crept close and slept curled in the sand next to O’Neill.

The following day, Jack made sure he worked next to the boy, surreptitiously helping him.

By the end of the work day, the kid was so exhausted he could hardly stagger back to the slave compound. Once again, Jack shared his meal with the youngster. The boy was so tired he could barely chew the hard bread.

"Jack," O’Neill pointed to himself.

The boy blinked his wide eyes and said, very quietly, "Mousch."

"Mousch? That’s your name? " Jack repeated, pointing at the child, who nodded. "Hi, Mousch, nice ta' meet ya'."

/-----------\

Day after day, during the endless dawn to dusk toil, O’Neill made sure he stayed near the boy. At night, they slept side by side, Jack protecting the child. Though he tried over and over again to get the kid to speak, to say more, he didn’t. The boy uttered just the one word, and said a thousand times more with his imploring, terrified looks every time one of the Jaffa came near.

A week passed. Jack had always been lean, but his ribs were showing, his cheeks growing gaunt. His back and knees were a constant, unending ache. At night, lying curled on the hard ground, covered only with a ragged bit of blanket he’d inherited when one of the other slaves died, he wondered how long he could go on. And then he looked down at the child, and knew he had to keep on, no matter the cost.

Most importantly, he had to find a way to escape.

Every day he watched, and then, one day in the mine, he found an old shirt. The cloth was coarse but strong. Slowly his plan began to take shape.

He and the boy, together, could escape.

Exhausted as he was, every night Jack worked on the shirt. His cracked and broken nails proved unequal to the task of tearing it apart, but he managed to work loose a nail from a beam in the mine. With that, and his teeth, he ripped the shirt into shreds, painstakingly braiding it into rope. When the shirt was gone, he had to look for another source of material. It wasn’t hard to find, not as long as he wasn’t squeamish. Assigned one evening to the detail charged with removing the bodies of those who’d been worked to death, he helped himself to the shirt and pants from a dead man. The other slaves gave him strange looks, waving their hands at him in a gesture that seemed to designate him as something lower than the lowest, but he ignored their looks. He wasn’t going to be staying here much longer; what they thought of him wouldn’t matter.

/-----------\

The rope grew longer, night by night. Every night at supper, starving though he was, he held back a bit of the dry bread, hiding it away behind a loose stone in the wall near the spot where he and Mousch slept.

/-----------\

At last, he was ready. There would be no moon until late. His rope was now long enough for the task.

Jack tried to explain his plan to the boy, but Mousch only stared at him. He didn’t know if the kid understood, he could only hope that, when the time came, the boy would simply follow his lead.

The night was pitch black. All around them, the silence was broken only by the snores and occasional murmured cries of the sleeping slaves. Hoping the boy understood the meaning of the finger-in- front-of-his-lips for silence gesture, Jack crept away from their sleeping place.

The boy followed. Jack signaled for him to stay close, ghosting silently along the wall of the compound, toward one dark corner. None of the other slaves roused as the pair moved quietly to the spot O’Neill had made note of long ago.

The wall enclosing the slave quarters consisted of crude bricks set tightly together and held in place with some sort of mortar. The walls were, for the most part, smooth and unclimbable. This corner, however, had been patched, and there were rough edges.

Pulling the rope out from under his threadbare shirt, Jack formed a loop, then swung it carefully, tossing it up and over the wall. His first throw missed, the line sliding back down to hit the ground. His second attempt was equally futile. Finally, on the third try, Jack managed to hook the rope over a rough outcropping atop the wall.

"Ill go up first, and pull you up after me, okay?" he whispered to Mousch, hoping the boy understood.

Gripping the rope with his hands, using his feet to walk up the wall, Jack climbed quickly. Once on top of the wall, he waved at the boy. The youngster took hold of the rope, and Jack quickly pulled him up.

There was a long drop here, down to the river running far below. Without knowing the depth of the water or the strength of the current, it was too far and too steep to jump down. Moving silently, the boy following, Jack edged along the wall for nearly a hundred yards. The ground had leveled out, and there were more buildings here, thrown up against the compound wall. It was only a short drop down to the roof of one of them.

He didn’t want to jump, though, worried about the noise it might make if someone were inside. Jack cast around, searching for something to attach the rope to, and finally finding a rough edge where he could fasten the rope. He slid down first, careful to land softly, then waved at the boy. The kid slid down, Jack catching him. Shaking the rope until it came loose, Jack caught it, too, as it fell. Wrapping it around his waist, he worked his way cautiously along the roof. It was a short drop to the ground below, ten feet maybe. Jack carefully lowered himself down from the roof’s edge, hanging by his arms, and let himself drop. He hit and rolled like he was making a parachute landing. Nodding now at the boy, he waited as the kid let himself down, and Jack caught the descending youngster once more.

Taking the boy’s hand, Jack turned and began moving through the empty streets. Traveling carefully, gliding from shadow to shadow, they made their way out of the town, where they faced their next obstacle.

The river.

There was a large, sturdy bridge, but even from this distance, Jack could see the guards at the far end. There was no choice but to swim for it.

Still holding the boy’s hand, Jack crept down to the water’s edge.

He could hear the current rushing past, and sticking one hand in the water, the icy cold made him shudder. There was no other option, though, so he stripped off his boots, tying the laces together and wrapping them around his neck before stepping into the water.

The boy’s tight hold on his hand jerked him back.

"Come on," Jack whispered, urgently.

The kid shook his head, his feet stubbornly planted.

"It’s okay, think of it as a bath. A cold bath, but--"

The boy wasn’t budging, shaking his head no.

"You can’t swim?" Jack asked him at last, making swimming motions, and was rewarded with a shake of the kid's head. "Damn," he muttered.

They’d seen nothing that could be used as a float, so finally, shrugging, Jack knelt and pulled the boy against his back, linking the small hands around his neck, wrapping the thin legs around his waist. "I can swim for both of us, Mousch. You just hold on tight."

Maybe the water wasn’t really so deep, he told himself as he walked out into the current, the water quickly rising above his knees. Of course, if it wasn’t deep, they wouldn’t need a bridge, his inner voice chided him. He ignored the logic, and forged onward.

Another three steps and he was swimming.

Jack heard the boy gasp, felt the thin arms tightening fearfully around his shoulders as he reached out with his long arms, stroking strongly into the water.

Damn, the river was cold.

And it was moving fast.

Way too fast.

Jack felt the current tugging at him, sucking him downstream, and he swam doggedly. It was hard work, carrying both himself and the boy, but he was making progress, even if it was only slow progress, he assured himself.

He was a good swimmer. The weeks of work in the mine had strengthened his muscles, but the poor food and hard work had also worn him down. His arms began to tremble with the strain and his shoulders started to ache, but grimly, he pushed on.

Suddenly, he felt the water swirling and the current caught him. He was pulled under, resurfacing a moment later. The boy was clutching at him, frightened, his terrified movements making it even harder for Jack to hold his own. He renewed his efforts, surging forward in the water, calling on his reserves of strength. Stroke after stroke, he fought the strong current until he was sucked under again. Desperately, he fought his way back to the surface with the sinking realization that he didn’t have the strength to overcome the power of the water. He could hold his own, and that was all.

The current was carrying them downstream, sweeping them under the bridge.

Jack heard the guards shouting as he and the boy were spotted but there was nothing he could do. Inexorably, the water carried them closer and closer toward the shore, but he lacked the power to overcome it.

By the time his nearly frozen feet hit solid ground, the Jaffa were waiting.

Jack and the boy were pulled out of the water, dripping wet, shivering as the cool night air hit their soaked clothes.

The Jaffa glared angrily and said something to him, but Jack didn’t understand the words. A huge hand reached out and shoved him forwards.

"Hey, you don’t need to do that, you know? I was only getting a bath--" A blow from behind smacked into the middle of his back, driving him to his knees. "Oh for cryin’ out loud, would ya’ just--"

A second blow connected just below his ear. He went down again, head ringing.

Mousch tried to help him up, but even with the boy’s assistance, Jack's legs were too wobbly to support him. The cold and his exhaustion combined with the punches had robbed him of the strength needed to stand.

The Jaffa snapped out a harsh word, a command or a curse, probably both, Jack figured, as hands grabbed him roughly once more, dragging him upward.

The boy tried to stop them.

It all happened in slow motion before Jack's horrified eyes.

Mousch pushed at the Jaffa and the Jaffa flung the kid away with one hand. The small body flew backwards, down the steep bank and into the water. The boy screamed once, and, arms thrashing wildly and totally ineffectively, went under.

Mousch couldn’t swim.

"Nooooo!" From somewhere, Jack found the energy to rear upwards, more surprise than strength allowing him to momentarily pull one arm free. "Let me—help—let me--" He fought as hard as he could, throwing punches, kicking out with his feet, stumbling toward the water, and the drowning boy.

Suddenly, out of nowhere, or so it seemed to him, a huge Jaffa fist slammed into his jaw and buried him in swirling blackness.

/-----------\

Consciousness returned slowly, bringing with it the mother of all headaches. He was moaning, lying in the mud, shivering, cold and wet, his brain cells not yet making effective connections with one another. When he forced his eyes open, everything was blurry, gray and unfocussed.

Jack drifted on the edge of consciousness, and then he remembered the boy. Groaning, he tried to get up and couldn’t. Even if he hadn’t been used for a punching bag, he wouldn’t have been able to get to his feet. His hands were bound behind his back and his ankles were tied together. He lifted his head, and discovered that he was still lying along the riverbank. One Jaffa was standing beside him, two more were fishing a bundle of cloth out of the water.

Not a bundle of cloth, but a body, a small, lifeless, defenseless, body.

The boy’s body.

He drew in a deep sobbing breath and cursed himself for his stupidity, for not planning better, for taking the boy with him, for having ever been born.

Another dead child, dead by his hand. He ignored the certainty that the boy would have died a slower but no less certain death laboring in the mine.

The guilt was deep enough to drown a giant.

And Jack O’Neill knew he was no giant.

/-----------\

He was carried back through the gate and into the compound, across the courtyard and thrown carelessly to the ground.

The rough landing knocked the wind out of him.

For a few minutes, Jack was left alone. The ringing in his ears gradually faded, the ability to draw an effective breath returned, and the dizziness abated. Just about the time he thought he might not be dying, he heard the tread of heavy footsteps approaching.

"So this is the one who seeks death, our Tau’ri," Min laughed . "I should have known it would be this one."

The Goa’uld walked slowly around the human who lay bound at his feet, staring blankly forward. "You look strong. That strength will provide us with much entertainment, the sort I have not enjoyed for a very long time. Your death will be long and slow and quite agonizing. Perhaps you will set a new record. The longest anyone has survived their punishment was three days." The snakehead turned away, then paused, and looked back at O’Neill. "Korsh, give him 20 lashes, just for my amusement."

The Jaffa smiled, bending down to cut the ropes binding Jack’s ankles and wrists. O’Neill was dragged across the compound to the far too-familiar post. His hands were jerked high above his head and fastened with another set of chains that cut into the scarred flesh of his wrists.

The Jaffa leered at him, then stepped back, flashing his knife once more. He used it to slit O’Neill’s shirt, pulling it down around his waist.

Twenty. He didn’t know if he could take 20, he’d barely managed the 10. And he’d been stronger then, much stronger.

With the first few blows, the lash cut open the mostly healed welts on his back.

Jack didn’t scream. He thought of revenge and retribution, letting each blow fuel his hatred and solidify his determination.

He bit his lip, and he muttered obscenities, and he chewed the inside of his cheek until he felt the bitter taste of blood flowing in his mouth.

His back was a sea of white hot agony.

Somehow, Jack didn’t know how it happened, he found himself down on his knees. He only knew that he didn’t have the strength to get back to his feet.

And then he knew nothing at all.

/-----------\

He’d been unconscious a long time, that much he realized because it was dark.

O’Neill shivered, and moaned.

First thing, he had to get up, get the pressure off his hands, wrists and shoulders. That would be a start. It took him a while, a long while, to figure out how to get his legs under him, to gather up the strength to move his feet, lock his knees and stand.

That accomplished, he examined his plight.

Back, a raw, bleeding mess.

Hands, tingling but no longer numb.

Chains, tightly in place, attached to the post rooted firmly in the ground.

Clad only in tattered trousers, no shirt to keep him warm in the chill night air. No shade to shelter him from tomorrow’s hot sun. No water, and highly doubtful anyone would be bringing him any.

Help , non-existent.

Friends, he had none, not on this planet.

Hope for rescue, only in his dreams.

His mission, a failure.

His life, not worth a plug nickel.

Sagging against the post, Jack tried to find a reason to go on, and found none except his stubborn will to survive.

/----------\

All through the long night, he dozed and shivered.

The warmth of the rising sun felt good.

At first.

The heat built, as did his thirst, the sun mercilessly beating down on him.

The compound was silent. The others were long gone, marched out to work at dawn, none of them even daring to look at him.

Through that first day he simply endured, making no sound, conserving his strength.

The sun set, providing a short lived respite. Soon, the sweat turned cold on his skin, a chill wind making him shiver.

Another day dawned, though it brought no hope with it.

/-----\

He smelled it first.

Water.

It roused him from the delirium he resided in, even though he knew it was only intended to add to his misery.

"Tau’ri…" The snake’s malicious grin swam into focus, inches from his own face. "Are you thirsty?" The bejeweled hand waved the jug of water in front of his face.

Despite himself, he licked his cracked, bloodied lips with his swollen tongue.

"Ah, you would like this, wouldn’t you?" Min tipped the jug, letting a tiny trickle of water spill.

Jack couldn’t keep his eyes off of it.

"Say the word, and it is yours."

"Fuck off," Jack growled.

Min laughed. "You are strong, Tau’ri, very strong. Two days, and you are not begging. I do not believe, however, that there has ever been a slave who endured through the third day." The long, delicate hand reached out to touch the sweat and dirt caked face. "Too soon it will be over. Such a shame, to waste such strength. You could have done the work of many of these weak and worthless natives." The snake looked at the human, and smiling once again, he took the water, and poured it over the man’s head.

The liquid made dirty rivulets down Jack's cheeks. Desperately, his tongue sought the few drops of moisture it could reach. Even as he did it, he knew it was futile, but he couldn’t stop himself, he was a fighter. There wasn’t much good that could be said about Jack O’Neill, but he would never quit.

Never.

So long as a single breath remained in his body.

It wasn’t a decision he made, it wasn’t a rational, thought out plan, it was just his nature.

The tiny drops of water he’d managed to get into his mouth were far too little to make any difference in his plight.

Somehow, he hung on through the heat of the day, surviving until the cooling of sunset.

The evening chill started a whole new type of agony as cramps wracked his rapidly cooling body.

Exhausted, he hung in the chains, unable to do anything more than blindly endure and exist.

Death was drawing closer now, he could feel it creeping in, hear it whispering familiarly to him, telling him of a place where pain no longer existed. It called out to him in a slick, too-friendly, used car salesman’s voice, full of promises-- stop resisting, give in, let the agony end.

"Jack--"

Odd. He thought someone had just said his name.

"Jack--"

A chuckle that was more croak than laughter escaped O'Neill's lips. He was on a first name basis with death.

"Jack, please. Be quiet!"

Hallucinations. The end had to be blessedly near now, because as he opened his eyes to the darkness of another wretched night, a shadowy figure stood before him. It looked like a Jaffa, but no one alive on this whole bleepin’ planet knew his name.

"Jack, don’t you recognize me?"

He tried to see, staring into the dark, willing his eyes to focus, but all he saw was the blurry, indistinct form of a Jaffa. "Death?" he mumbled.

"No, Jack it’s me."

The voice sounded oddly familiar.

"It’s me, it’s Charlie."

Okay, now he knew he was hallucinating. Charlie was dead, every Charlie he knew was dead: his son, Kawalsky, the Reetou boy he had tried to save.

Dead.

Dead dead dead.

He was talking to the dead.

Or maybe he was dead already and he just didn’t know it yet.

The painful croaking laugh rolled up out of his chest once more. Oh, this was perfect. Talking to death.

Of course, he was pretty sure the pain went away when you died. Then again, maybe he was wrong.

"Jack," the voice was intense now.

O’Neill still couldn’t see well enough to recognize the face. All he could do was just sense a shadowy something blocking the dim starlight.

Something touched his face, and he jerked back, moaning at the pain that ignited like fire in his damaged body at the sudden movement, small as it was.

"Shhhh, quiet!" the voice ordered. "I’m not going to hurt you."

Yeah, right, that was likely. All they did here was hurt him, over and over again.

A hand touched his chin and once more he weakly twitched away.

"Jack, it’s water."

Bastards. What, now they were going to give him water to drag out his death? Again, he struggled, clamping his teeth shut, turning his head, refusing the liquid even though his body cried out for it.

The voice changed again, the tone sounding suddenly desperate. "Stop. Please, Jack. Listen to me." The face he couldn’t recognize was suddenly inches from his own, brown eyes staring intensely into his eyes. "Jack, it’s me, Charlie, Charlie from the Reetou, Charlie and Sha’ban."

There was no doubt now that he was hallucinating. "You’re dead," he mumbled.

A different voice answered then, an echoing voice that, if he’d had the energy to be afraid, would have struck terror into his heart. "No, I am not dead. Neither is the boy. Not yet. But if you do not let him help you, his deception will be uncovered and he will be killed. Do you want to be responsible for his death, O’Neill?"

He was already responsible for far too many deaths. "No," he whispered honestly.

"Then cooperate. Drink the liquid the boy is offering. It is water mixed with lish’aa, a Tok'ra restorative. It will give you strength to endure."

Sure, endure more pain? Endure more torture? Endure a longer death? He'd already been through it all before, and it hadn't been fun then. What was the point in doing it all over again?

The harmonic voice was speaking to him once again. "O’Neill, listen. The boy and I will be on guard duty tomorrow night. We can help you escape. But you must survive that long. Drink."

He didn’t trust the voice, he didn’t, but he could no longer resist. The smell of the water was driving him mad. This time, when the container touched his cracked, swollen lips, he could no longer stop himself and he drank greedily.

"Easy, not too fast or your body will reject it," the snake voice said.

He drank, sucking the container dry, and wasn’t sure mere liquid, not even some Tok'ra magic potion, would be enough to sustain him through another God-forsaken day.

"Wha…" he tried to ask.

"I cannot stay longer without grave risk of discovery."

A hand gently touched his face, the only comforting touch he’d felt in longer than he could remember. When it was pulled away, he thought he might have cried then, if he'd been able to.

The dim half-seen figure leaned close to whisper. "It will be okay, Jack. Hold on until tomorrow night, at the setting of the moon. We will free you then."

Just as suddenly as it had appeared, the figure was gone into the dark of the night.

Jack still hung on the post, his back raw, shoulders on fire, wrists burning, legs weak and weary. He’d have thought it had all been some fevered dream if he couldn’t still taste the water on his lips, couldn’t still feel the cool, smooth liquid, feel his throat muscles working as he swallowed.

It had been real.

Real, as was hope.

One more day.

He could last that long, now that there was an end in sight.

All he had to do was take it one minute at a time.

One second.

One breath.

One heartbeat.

Don’t count the seconds, don’t count the minutes, don’t do the math, don’t multiply 24 hours by 60 minutes because he couldn’t last through another 1,440 minutes… damn, he’d done the math, hadn’t stopped himself. Don’t think, he ordered himself, just be. Survive. Live.

Concentrate on life.

He shivered in the cold pre-dawn hours, hearing the casual talk as the guard changed. The Jaffa going off-duty walked out of his way to pass close by in the inky remnants of the night, muttering what Jack knew were insults. The guard, smiling, reached out to spitefully kick his feet out from under him. He bit his lip to hold back the scream as he fell toward his knees, jerked up short by the chains that held him to the bond. His wrists and shoulders bore the brunt of his sudden stop on his descent toward the ground, more skin tearing away, more blood he could ill afford to lose trickling down his long arms.

The guard’s gleeful laughter echoed around the compound.

/-----------\

The rising sun signaled another day of misery.

All around him in the barracks, the workers were rising for the day. The slaves’ morning meal was brought to them, the smell of the gruel he hated another form of torture. Frankly, Jack was amazed he could even still feel hungry but his body still reacted even as his spirit flagged.

But he had hope now.

If it hadn’t all been a delusion, a wishful fever dream.

His visitor, and the water, it had been real.

The minutes dragged by as the sun rose higher into the sky, its heat growing exponentially, baking the last bits of moisture from his skin. Jack hung unmoving in his chains, clinging to life by the barest of threads, too stubborn to die. Pain filled his body, consumed his world, became the one reality of his existence. Pain meant he wasn’t dead yet. He clung to it like a drowning man clinging to a liferaft in the midst of an endless ocean.

/-----------\

It wasn’t the sounds of the words, but the shadow cast by his visitor that roused him from his stupor. A hand fastened in his now raggedly long hair, jerking his head backward, pulling his neck at a painfully awkward angle. "So it yet lives."

Somehow, he summoned up the energy to open dry crusted eyelids. He would have spit into the face of the bastard, if he could have spared the moisture. As it was, he tried to smile, but only a grimace twisted his face.

"I could almost admire your toughness, slave, if you were not such a fool."

"Fffff… you," he couldn’t force the rest of the sound past his cracked and bleeding lips. His failure made him angry, made him try harder one more time, even if the damn snakehead wouldn’t understand the insult. "Fffukkk you."

"Ah, still defiant I see. Well, not for long. A waste of a good slave, but you have left me no choice."

"Always… choice," he mumbled, amazed he could still think of the words, still utter the necessary sounds, though even to his ears they were slurred and indistinct.

/-----------\

Live.

Cling to life.

Hold out.

Hold on.

Breathe.

The air was furnace hot, so dry it burned his throat with each ragged indrawn breath.

Outlast the bastard.

Evening was coming. He could tell by the angle of the sun on his back, by the way his left side was cooler now, and his right side was baking in the sun.

He was winning.

Help was on the way.

Help would come, if he could hold on.

Never quit.

Never give in.

Never give up.

The O’Neill bravado.

He didn’t feel so brave anymore.

Didn’t feel very alive, either.

But he was.

He wasn’t aware when the hallucinations started. He didn’t know that he was wasting precious energy mumbling, calling out to his invisible visitors: his son Charlie, splashing in the little plastic swimming pool in the back yard; Diving into the ice cold pond at Granddad’s Minnesota cabin; A snowball thwatting him wetly in the back of the neck; Swimming the river to escape pursuers in some nameless Iron Curtain country.

The water and the cold felt so good.

He shivered, and opened his eyes, and despair gripped him because none of it had been real.

No water.

No snow.

No cold.

No Charlie.

/-----\

He wasn’t really conscious of the sun setting, though he became slowly aware that it was no longer so broiling hot. No longer able to piece together cause and effect, the realization that the heat was less intense because the day was over at last was beyond him. He heard the sound of the slaves coming back to the compound and smelled the food of their evening meal which no longer interested him.

Jack O’Neill waited only for the agony to end.

For the end to come, in one way or another.

Shivering in the now chill evening air, he waited, using the last of his strength to push back the dark curtain that was inexorably drawing in on him.

He was oblivious to the stars appearing in the velvet of the night sky, and the moon’s journey overhead.

All he knew was the need to go on, because the end would come soon now. Soon.

He’d been promised.

/-----------\

"Jack," the word was whispered low and urgent to the still form that hung limply from the post.

For an awful moment, the boy was afraid he was too late. "Jack!"

It triggered a response, the head shifting slightly as O’Neill tried and failed to find the strength to lift it. Moving quickly, the young man was at the prisoner’s side, once again offering liquid. This time, O’Neill didn’t respond and Charlie had to support the sagging chin. Holding the flask to the still lips, he poured the lish’aa into the slack mouth, some of the precious fluid dribbling down the dirty, stubbled chin.

The moisture trigged some instinctual reaction deep inside the human’s barely functional brain, and automatically, Jack swallowed.

The liquid revived him, warming him, a glimmer of strength flowing into the nearly lifeless body.

The brown eyes opened, blinking, as O’Neill moaned, his feeble movements barely rattling the heavy chains.

"Quiet!" the boy whispered urgently. He was barely tall enough to reach up to the manacles fastened around the man’s wrists, fumbling to work the lock in the dark. The task was made more difficult by O’Neill’s weight hanging against the iron. "Jack, can you stand?" Charlie pleaded, wrapping his arms around the man’s waist and hoisting him upward.

Not sure why it was important, but hearing the urgency in the young man’s voice, O’Neill tried to get his legs to hold him up, but they folded like wet paper.

Knowing every moment that passed increased the risk of discovery, Charlie called on Sha’ban for help. Using the Tok’ra’s strength, he managed to pull the man’s arms upward enough to unhook the bindings from the pole, though the heavy iron cuffs were still fixed around O’Neill’s wrists.

Without the chains to support him, the gray haired man collapsed bonelessly to the ground.

The boy bent down over the thin form. "Jack, we have to go now. Can you?"

The brown eyes were glazed. "Try," he promised.

"You must be quiet. Very quiet. Even a small noise may betray us."

O’Neill nodded, watching as the boy took his tunic and wrapped it around the links of the chain that held the man’s wrists mere inches apart. Then, bending down, once more relying on the alien strength supplied by Sha’ban, Charlie pulled O’Neill’s far too thin body up and over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry.

/-----\

Jack bit his lip to hold back the hoarse moan of pain the movement evoked. Keeping his eyes closed, he let Charlie carry him away.

/-----\

In the velvet dark, the Tok’ra carried his limp burden across the compound and through the door he’d left open, an exit into the guard’s quarters. Slipping along quietly, he passed the barracks where the guards slept. He knew the other night watchman, Effa, would be on the far side of the buildings. He had only to get past the dogs.

The animals stirred as he approached. "Easy boys," he muttered, counting on the fact that they knew him. But the first rose to his feet, nose twitching, scenting the air, the hair on its neck rising.

"Easy," Charlie whispered once again.

Recognizing him, the dog turned back to its bed, circling before sinking down with a sigh.

Hurrying in the dark, knowing he had already taken too long, Charlie carried his burden toward the gate. Before he could open it, he heard footsteps.

Oh for cryin’ out loud, he thought, sinking back into the shadows, letting his burden down to rest on the ground. He placed a hand over Jack’s mouth, hoping the man would understand the urgent need for absolute quiet.

The footsteps grew closer, passing by on the way to the latrine.

Which meant he would be coming back by in a few minutes.

O’Neill was sagging against the boy’s leg. Charlie could feel the heat rolling off the man’s fevered skin. Bending down, he placed his mouth against Jack’s ear. "Quiet."

He stared into the man’s glazed eyes, saw the head nod minutely in understanding before the tired body drooped once more.

The minutes stretched. Charlie was worried, every moment spent waiting here was one less moment for escape before O’Neill was missed.

Finally, what seemed like ages later, the Jaffa returned, walking slowly past the humans’ hiding place, and back to the barracks.

"Now, we must hurry."

/-----------\

O’Neill wasn’t up to hurrying. He wasn’t up to anything, he knew, and tried to tell the boy, and couldn’t find the strength. Letting Charlie pull him to his feet, Jack stumbled but shuffled doggedly forward.

/-----------\

The bridge was the next obstacle. Charlie was frightened but Sha’ban reassured him that their plan would work. Easing Jack down to the ground in the shelter of the last row of houses, the boy walked out toward the bridge.

"Kree!" he called softly.

The guards marched across the gate. "What do you want?"

"Nothing," said the boy, pulling a zat gun from his waistband and shooting them both. Charlie knew the plan, knew he should shoot them again, but he hesitated. He had never killed before.

/It’s okay boy, I will do it/ said Sha’ban, and he zatted each one of the Jaffa twice more. There would be no clue left as to how or why they had disappeared.

/-----------\

For the boy's sake, Jqck kept moving as long as he could. He didn’t know where he was going, or why, only that it was important to Charlie that he keep moving. And if it was important to Charlie, it was important to him.

Leaning heavily on the boy, Jack forced his feet to keep shuffling forward.

Soon they left the hardpacked roadway and moved off into the fields. The walking was harder there, and he stumbled and fell. Charlie tugged him to his feet and he lurched onward. He wanted to lie down and rest, he wanted to sink into sleep and escape the chills, aches and pains wracking his body. But every time he faltered, Charlie insisted he go on.

Finally, his legs shaking with exhaustion, O’Neill faltered and stopped.

"Jack, come on!" the boy whispered.

"Can’t," he mumbled, weaving on his feet despite the arm wrapped around the boys slim shoulders. "Gotta’ rest."

"Not here. It’s only a little ways further."

"Home?" the worn out human asked hopefully.

"Not home." Even as he said the words, Charlie felt the man slump further, resting more weight against him. "But a good place, a place where you can rest and heal. Now come on." The boy tugged him forward. "Please, Jack."

O'Neill nodded, not wanting to waste the energy needed to answer, and plodded forward once more, Charlie half carrying him through the dark, deserted countryside.

/-----------\

Charlie was worried. The sun would be rising soon, and he’d thought they would have arrived at the hiding place hours ago. He hadn’t realized how weak Jack would be and how long it would take them to travel even a short distance.

/Do not berate yourself for what you cannot help/ Sha’ban silently told the boy.

//But I should have planned for this!//

/We should have, yes. But that time is past, and we must do the best we can. We are very near our hiding place now./

//He’s very weak, and I have no more lish’aa to give him strength..//

/Together, Charlie, you and I have the strength to aid him. We will carry him if we must,/ the symbiote reassured.

//The sun may rise before we get there!//

/Then it will rise, and we will keep traveling./

//What if we are seen?//

/The guards have not yet raised the alarm over O’Neill’s escape. We are still safe. But we must hurry./

/-----------\

The odd three-some stumbled on, arriving at last in a deserted village. Like the others Jack had seen on the planet, this one was burned out, the people killed, taken away for slaves, or fled into the wilderness. The sky began to lighten, inky darkness fading to dull gray across the eastern horizon as they made their way past the charred wreckage of once sturdy but now half-burned buildings. The roofs of most were collapsed, windows broken out, wall leaning at odd angles. Weeds had begun to grow in the once well-traveled alleyways between the buildings. Ashes, kicked up with the dust as they walked, made Charlie’s throat feel raw, and started Jack coughing.

It was the last straw for the exhausted Colonel. His energy gone, the wracking coughs robbed him of the last of his strength. He fell to his knees and slumped sideways. The boy barely managed to catch him, keeping him from falling flat in the dirt.

"Just a few steps more," Charlie pleaded.

O’Neill sat on the rough ground, completely done in.

"Get up!" Charlie ordered, taking hold of the human’s hand, pulling.

Jack tried to help him. Digging deep for his last reserves of strength, he straightened his legs and let the boy pull him to his feet. He locked his knees, closing his eyes, weaving unsteadily and clinging to Charlie for support.

Charlie, all but carrying the man now, pushed his way through a narrow gap between two destroyed huts and toward what was left of an old barn. Burnt roof timbers had fallen in, creating a jumbled maze of wreckage. Winding his way carefully through what seemed to be an impenetrable mess, the boy came to an opening and ducked inside. Covered by a broken off piece of the roof that slanted to the ground at an angle, held up by a cracked but intact piece of the barn’s stone wall, the front obscured by the wreckage of the front half of the roof, the place was sheltered from the wind and hidden from prying eyes.

Blankets were already laid out, forming a bed for the injured man. Charlie eased Jack down onto the ground, covering him with another blanket.

"You can rest now, Jack," the boy instructed.

"We’re safe?" O’Neill mumbled.

"Yes. "

A half smile crossed the dirt streaked face, glazed eyes sliding shut wearily. "Home, Charlie?"

"For now." From a stack of supplies stashed in the corner of the small shelter, Charlie pulled out a waterskin and helped Jack drink. He watched as the man swallowed, then fell back on the blankets. "Jack, I have to go out and hide our tracks. Just stay here and keep quiet, okay?"

"Hmm mmm."

Charlie took the mumble as a yes. "I’ll be back soon."

Hurrying out, he discovered it was full daylight now. He had to move quickly. The hunt was surely on for the escaped prisoner, and, once they realized he was missing from the guard’s barracks, they would be searching for him as well. Quickly, he brushed out the telltale tracks they’d left in the dusty street. He pulled down more of the debris, scattering it across the street to cover the signs of their passage. Backtracking toward their hiding spot, Charlie carefully obscured all the evidence that anyone had recently traveled this way. Finally back at the half-collapsed barn, he pulled charred boards upright to cover the entrance to their hidey-hole.

Quickly, the boy made his way back to where he’d left his friend.

He would have to do what he could for first aid. He wished Dr. Fraiser was here. He remembered how kind she’d been to him when he’d been on Earth, how she spoke softly and worked gently, explaining things to him and making him feel better. Not as much better or safe as Jack had made him feel, but he knew that if she was here, she’d be able to help Jack.

/I can help Colonel O’Neill, too, Charlie,/ Sha’ban reminded him.

//He doesn’t like you.//

/That is true, but it does not matter. I have lived for many years, and I have some healing skills./

//We could help him more if we had a healing device.//

/True. But we do not have such a thing. So we will make do with what we have. First, we must tend to his wounds./

"Jack?" the boy asked.

The man’s brown eyes blinked, opened, then slid shut again, as if they were heavy as stone. "We don’t… have to move… a‘gain, do we? Too… tired," O’Neill admitted.

"We don’t have to move. But I need to clean and bandage your wounds," the boy answered.

"’Kay."

"I’ll be careful, but it might hurt."

"A’ways does," Jack mumbled.

Charlie started with water and a clean rag, gently rinsing away the dirt and blood. Even though he wasn’t a kid anymore but a young man, he had to bite his lip to stop himself from crying at what he saw. The man was thin, far too thin, pale skin stretched taut over bone and sinew. Under the ragged gray hair, there was a nasty, bloody gash along O’Neill’s temple. Bruises, fresh ones in black and blue, old fading ones turned a muddy yellow, covered his chest and ribcage. At least one of the ribs was bumpy, undoubtedly broken Sha’ban advised him. O’Neill’s wrists were raw, the skin torn and ripped away. At least one of the long, slender fingers was misshapen, grossly swollen indicating it, too, was broken.

"Not pretty, huh?" Jack mumbled.

"I have seen worse, O’Neill," Sha’ban answered.

"Bet ya’ have."

"Be quiet and save your strength, Tauri. This next will be difficult."

Rolling the man onto his side, Charlie carefully washed the blood from the broad back. Long, bloody welts, skin torn and angry red, crisscrossed from shoulder to waist.

"I have some healing salve," the Tok'ra explained. "It will sting slightly."

Jack nodded, steeling himself. He hissed at the first touch, gentle as it was, flinching each time the cool paste contacted torn skin. It burned slightly, then numbed the sensitized nerves, he realized gratefully, then sighed.

"Are you okay?" Charlie sounded frightened.

"Nice," O’Neill whispered, "feels good," and he let himself drift away into the pain-free haven of unconsciousness.

Charlie saw the eyes go closed and the tense body suddenly relax and go limp. Momentarily, terror seized him.

/It is okay, boy. O’Neill but sleeps./

//He is hurt so badly,// even the silent communication between host and symbiote conveyed the tremor in the boys words.

/Rest is what he needs,/ Sha’ban stated calmly.

//Will he die?//

/Perhaps. Perhaps not. If he can recover his strength, he will live. From what you have told me of him, he is strong and stubborn, and will fight for life./

//I should have taken him away sooner,// the boy wailed.

/You have done the best you could, Charlie. Without your aid, he would have died already./

Charlie shuddered. //He saved me.//

/I am aware of what he means to you, boy./

//I never had a father, until I met Jack.//

/He is not your father./

//I know. But I wanted him to be. And he wanted to be.//

/But he could not./

//He took care of me, when Mother died and I was all alone.//

/He is a good man. Now we must finish our work. We shall spare him pain by bandaging the rest of his wounds now./

The hours passed slowly. Jack didn’t wake, though his sleep seemed troubled and restless. He was terribly pale, and his skin felt too warm and feverish. Charlie was barely able to rouse him enough to help him drink.

Though he was incredibly tired himself, having been up all night, combined with the hard work of all but carrying the injured man, Charlie’s fears wouldn’t let him sleep. Once, he heard the sound of Jaffa and their mounts passing nearby, and later, the rhythmic tread of marching Jaffa, but neither stopped in the ruined village.

//They are hunting for us.//

/We are safe here. This is a good hiding place. You chose well, Charlie./

Reassured, the boy finally fell asleep.

/-----------\

A nightmare woke him. Not his own, but Jack’s. The man was moving feebly under his blankets, his head tossing slowly from side to side, mumbling something. His hands came up suddenly, pushing weakly at an invisible enemy.

Charlie couldn’t understand the muttered words. "Jack?"

The whispering voice was so low the boy had to bend down to hear it.

"Let me go, let me help him. Let me help. Don’t. Don’t. Oh god, don’t. Stop. No. Stop."

"Jack, you’re safe. No one will hurt you." Charlie caught the flailing hands in his own, surprised at the strength. "It’s okay."

"Go ‘way!"

"It’s me, it’s Charlie," the boy tried to keep the worry out of his voice. "Please!"

"Charlie?"

For a moment, the boy thought his friend understood, and then his hopes were dashed.

Hands clutched weakly at his arm as glazed eyes, unseeing, looked up at him, unfocused. "Charlie, forgive me. Forgive me, son. I’m sorry, sorry…" The mumbling faded away as the aimless motions ceased and Jack seemed to fall more deeply unconscious.

/-----------\

Afternoon faded into evening. More horses passed, and once Charlie heard the chilling wail of a Jaffa hunting horn, but it was far off in the distance.

Jack’s fever rose. His body radiated heat and his skin was sweat slicked as he tried to push off the blankets. Over and over again, Charlie pulled them back into place, using cold water to wipe away the sweat beading on O’Neill’s face. Jack kept muttering, low, indecipherable words, grimacing as he shuddered.

//Is he dying?/ the boy wondered fearfully.

/He has a bad fever. Keep the blankets in place, we must keep him warm./

//But he’s already too warm…//

/Fever is a strange thing. Do as I say, boy. Help him drink, keep him warm./

Night fell. Charlie wished he had a light, but he knew he didn’t dare start a fire. Their hiding place was very good and they were well concealed, but a fire was too big a risk. Still, it would have cheered him and help him keep his fears at bay.

/What is it you fear, Charlie?/

The boy allowed the symbiote to see his memories. //The Goa’uld. Being alone. Losing Jack.//

/You are not alone, ever, Charlie,/ Sha’ban told him. /I am here with you./

The boy shook his head, showing the Tok’ra his memories of being hugged by Mother, by Jack, and even by the foster family of Tok’ra who had cared for him here on Bortran. //They’re all gone. I can’t lose Jack, too.//

/We have not lost him yet./

//He is very sick…//

/Yes, he is…/

//…and he doesn’t have a symbiote to heal him.//

/Humans *can* heal themselves, Charlie./

//I couldn’t.//

/You are not an ordinary human./

//I know. Jack told me, and Dr. Fraiser told me, too. I’m different.//

/You are special./

The boy shook his head. /I’m frightened./

Sha’ban was an old and wise Tok’ra, having lived inside many hosts, one of whom had been a mother. So though the symbiote had no arms to embrace the boy or hold him close to soothe his fears, Sha’ban calmed him with thoughts of peace and home and of a family neither one of them had actually ever known.

/-----------\

He was pretty sure he was dead. If not already in hell, then O’Neill knew he was surely in purgatory, though it didn’t seem right that an innocent like Charlie, the Reetou boy, would be there. But it was the only explanation that Jack could fathom in his fever-baked brain for the situation he found himself in.

He knew death had been close and life had been fading.

Something cool swathed his face, and a gentle voice spoke softly to him. Liquid touched his lips and he opened his mouth, allowing the soothing wetness to pour onto his tongue and down his throat.

Were there angels allowed into hell, to comfort the suffering? He didn’t remember that, but it had been a long time since he’d been to church. Maybe the rules had changed. Maybe--

He sighed and realized that the pain was easing, banking down from a roaring, raging flame to muted, dull embers.

/----------\

"Charlie?"

The voice woke the boy from a sound sleep. He rolled over and looked at the injured man. Jack’s eyes were wide open, for the first time his expression appearing alert if more than a bit confused. "Hi!"

"Charlie?"

"It’s me."

The brown eyes blinked once, slowly, infinitely sad. "Ah, then we’re both dead."

"Don’t be silly, Jack. We couldn’t be talking if we were dead. "

"Um. Not dead then. That’s good." O’Neill’s eyes drifted around the strange shelter he found himself in. "How’d I get here?"

"Sha’ban and I rescued you."

"Where are we?"

"We’re hiding."

Jack closed his eyes, and for a moment the boy thought he was going to sleep again, but the eyes opened once more. "Hiding where?"

"In an old barn in a village, not far from Min’s mine."

"How long have we been here?"

"We got here two days ago, after walking all night."

"I walked all night?" the confused look was back on O’Neill’s face.

"Well, in a way. Sometimes I carried you, with Sha’ban’s help. You don’t remember?"

"Not really." Jack let his eyes fall closed, and licked his lips.

"Are you thirsty?"

"Yeah."

Charlie scooted over closer, lifting Jack’s shoulders with one arm and handing him the water jug with the other. O’Neill reached out a trembling hand to take hold of it but needed the boy’s help to lift it to his mouth. He drank deeply, then slumped back onto the blankets.

"Do you feel better?" the boy asked hopefully. "Are you hungry?"

"Yeah, food would be good," he spoke slowly, still organizing his thoughts. "Got pizza?"

"No," Charlie smiled. "We don’t have pizza on Bortran, you know that."

"Oh, musta’ forgot," Jack smiled wanly. "So I guess whatever you’ve got will do."

"I brought bread and cheese and fruit. And clothes for you, and blankets," the boy explained proudly. "Sha’ban helped me find things and hide them here."

Jack was looking around at their hiding place, bits and pieces of memory slowly fitting into place inside his head. "You and the sna-- symbiote helped me escape."

"Yes. And we got this place ready to hide us in. The guards are out looking for us. Some Jaffa patrols have gone by, but no one’s looking here. They won’t. The outside of the barn is all burned and looks like it’s falling down."

Jack closed his eyes once more, trying to banish the dark memories that had been haunting him. "You were-- I thought you were dead. There were—there were-- bodies-- where you lived."

Charlie shivered. "They killed all the other Tok’ra, but I was at the pond, fishing, when they came. Sha’ban made me hide until they left."

"Smart guy," Jack whispered.

"Sha’ban used to think I was silly because I liked to go fishing, but it saved our lives. You saved us."

Jack smiled. "A'ways told ya’ fishing was important."

The boy nodded in agreement. "After the Jaffa left, I went back to the village, but everyone was dead or gone," there was a tremor in Charlie’s voice, but he pushed on. "I tried to get to the Stargate, to leave here, but there were lots of Jaffa around. So when some marched away, Sha’ban said I should follow them, and we did. We came here. We didn’t know what to do, but one day we found the body of a dead Jaffa. I took his armor and waited for the next shipment of slaves to be brought here. Sha’ban told me to tell the Jaffa Master that I was sent here to work as a guard. He believed me."

"You’re pretty small to be a Jaffa."

"It doesn’t show so much when I wear the armor. I’ve gotten tall."

"Yes, you have." Jack still found it hard to think of the kid as anything but a frightened little boy, all alone on a strange planet. Three years had changed him a lot.

"Sha’ban gave me the strength. And I was careful to never take the armor off in front of the others, so I could pass for a Jaffa."

"But why did you come here Charlie?"

"I thought maybe some of the people from my village might not be dead, that they might have been taken away to the mines. I was going to free them, because I knew that was the sort of thing you would do. Even Sha’ban thought we should. But I couldn’t find any of my friends from the village. I think they’re all dead," he said, sadly. "And then I didn’t know what to do. We stayed, because we didn’t have anywhere else to go, and there was food and shelter here. Sha’ban said we had to wait and watch and learn things that maybe we could use to help the Tok’ra someday. And then I saw you. I thought it was you, but you looked so different, without your uniform and your hat and all scruffy with a beard and your hair long. Sha’ban said it was my imagination, that it couldn’t really be you. There was no reason for you to be on Bortran. But I knew it was you."

"I came to rescue you," Jack said softly.

"But instead, I rescued you," the boy noted proudly.

"Yes, you did. Thank you, Charlie. Mother would be proud."

"Are you proud?"

"Me, too."

/-----------\

After that, Jack slept nearly around the clock for almost three days, waking long enough to eat and drink before dozing off again. Bit by bit, he started to feel better and get stronger. As he did, O’Neill became restless. Their hiding place was barely tall enough for him to stand upright, and as his energy returned he chafed at the inactivity. Unable to stay cooped up any longer, by the fourth night, the Colonel had to get outside.

With Charlie’s help, he made his way cautiously out of their hiding place, discovering for the first time how completely the rest of the village was destroyed, and how effective their place of concealment was. Even though he knew where to look, Jack needed Charlie’s help to find his way back inside after a half hour of walking that exhausted him more than he could have imagined.

He slept the next day away, and ventured outside again the next night.

That quickly became their routine: hiding during the day when Jaffa patrols roamed the area, then heading out after dark to fill the water jugs from the nearby stream.

A week passed.

/----------\

"Sha’ban says he thinks you will be ready to travel soon," Charlie told him one afternoon as they waited impatiently for the day to end.

"Yup." Jack was lounging on the blankets that had been his sickbed, juggling a trio of pinecones he had picked up during his previous night’s outdoor excursion.

"He thinks we can make it to the Stargate in a couple of days."

"I’m not going to the Stargate."

"We’re not?"

"*I’m* not. You should, though."

"But what are you going to do?"

O’Neill’s eyes were dark. "Pay off an old debt."

"An old debt?" Charlie stared at him. "You’re going to kill Min."

"I’m going to free all those people."

"Sha'ban says that will require killing the Goa’uld."

"Then so be it. That’s my job, to protect my own planet by ridding the universe of them." Well, it used to be his job. Since he’d basically gone AWOL to look for Charlie, he probably wasn’t a Colonel anymore, and he probably wouldn’t get the chance to finish what SG-1 had started years ago. If he was lucky, maybe he’d get to retire. Again.

"You don’t have a gun."

"There are other ways to kill a snake-- sorry, Sha’ban."

The boy nodded, his eyes flashed and the symbiote spoke. "No offense taken, Colonel O’Neill."

Jack shuddered at hearing the harmonic tones coming out of the boy’s mouth. Most of the time, he could forget what had been done to save Charlie’s life. Correction, what he had let the Tok’ra do, to save the dying youngster.

"You should not do this. The boy will not leave willingly, unless you go as well," Sha’ban continued.

"Then you should *make* him."

"I am a Tok’ra. I will not use force."

"Even if it’s for his own good? Even for the safety of *both* of you?"

"Even not then. It is not our way."

"So you say," Jack snapped.

"It is the guiding principle of our race, the one law all Tok’ra must obey."

"If it suits you."

"You mistrust us so much?"

"I have good reason."

"Yes, even here on this backwater planet, I have heard of the betrayal of Kanan. Do not judge all our kind by the inappropriate actions of one."

"Inappropriate?" Jack laughed harshly. "Now that’s a pretty word for it."

"Kanan was wrong. If he had survived, he would have been outcast, shunned."

"Yeah, well, lot of good that would do me."

"Perhaps it would make you despise us less."

"Perhaps not."

The old Tok’ra looked out of the boy’s young face. "I cannot change what was done to you."

"Yeah, well…"

"I can only do my best to protect this human you care for so very much."

"You’d better."

"I shall."

"Good. Then you’ll get him out of here and take him through the gate, while I take care of business."

"I shall try."

/-----------\

Every night, under the protective cover of darkness, Jack and Charlie moved out into the countryside. They watched the roads and monitored movements of the Jaffa as the Colonel slowly rebuilt his strength and plotted the end of the Goa’uld Min.

Sometimes, they would hide outside all day, carefully observing the activity around the mine and the slave’s compound. Moving around the countryside didn’t require much stealth. The Jaffa rarely strayed off the roads, and the countryside was eerily depopulated of natives. All the villages and farms in the area were deserted, devoid of life. Jack tried not to think of what had become of the former residents, but he was pretty sure he knew. He’d seen enough bodies in and around Charlie’s old home, and he’d seen, first hand, the casual brutality with which slaves were worked to death in the mines.

/-----------\/-----------\

Maybe they’d gotten careless, no, *he* had gotten careless, that’s what Jack told himself afterwards.

Two weeks had passed, and it seemed the Goa’uld had given up the search for the escapee and the ‘Jaffa’ who had aided him. Feeling almost healthy as normal, Jack began to seriously formulate a plan to end the snake’s rule and free those working in the mine.

And then, all his plans went to hell in a handbasket one hot, sunny afternoon.

Jack and Charlie were up on the hillside that was their favorite lookout spot, keeping an eye out for movement on the road far below. It had been a quiet day as the sun baked down and the heat built steadily. Not even a breeze stirred the heavy air amid the quiet landscape.

Jack wiped sweat from his forehead and fought to keep his eyes open.

He heard Charlie pick up the waterskin and shake it. "We’re out of water," the boy announced. "I’ll go get a refill."

"We should wait until dark."

"It’s hot."

"Yes."

"It won’t be dark for hours."

"We can wait."

"There’s no one around. We haven’t seen anyone all day. I’ll go now." The boy scrambled to his feet and started back down the hill toward the stream.

"Charlie! Don’t!" But the boy was already well down the hill. Damn fool impatient kid, Jack thought.

/-----------\

Charlie almost made it.

Nothing happened as he made his way down to the fast-flowing stream. He pushed the skin down into the clear, cool water, spooning some into his mouth with his hand and splashing some on his neck as the container filled. Jogging, the boy turned and started across the open ground toward the trees at the base of the hill, crossing the road.

He was only a hundred yards from the forest’s edge when they came.

/-----------\

Jack first heard their approach and then with horror he saw them. "No!" He jumped up and ran, stumbling on the downward slope in his haste, losing his balance once and sliding to land hard on his backside. He rolled and sprang back to his feet.

But he was far too late.

/-----------\

Sweeping along the road, riding their camel-elephant alien beasts at a hard gallop, Min and his guards swept down the road.

"Kree!" one of the Jaffa shouted.

"Catch him!" Min ordered.

Charlie sprinted for the woods but he couldn’t match the speed of the animals. Within seconds, one of the guards was beside him. Using his staff weapon, he delivered a hard blow to the boy’s back. Charlie went down, landing flat, the wind knocked out of him. He laid there as the rest of the guards rode up, dismounted, and surrounded him.

One of the Jaffa jerked the boy upright by the scruff of the neck. "I recognize your face. You are the traitor who disappeared the night the Tau’ri escaped!"

"Bring him to me," Min demanded. The guards, one holding each arm, forced the youngster forward.

The Goa’uld looked down at the boy suspiciously. "Without your armor you are puny for a Jaffa."

One of the guards reached over and tugged up Charlie’s shirt, revealing the unmarked stomach.

"He is not Jaffa!"

Min dismounted and walked up to the boy, stalking around him, looking the youngster over closely. His hand snapped out and latched onto Charlie’s chin, twisting it side to side to peer at his neck. The Goa’uld leaned close and whispered. "Your body bears no entrance scar, but I can sense the symbiote you carry. You are blended." He shook the youngster’s chin, hard. "So who are you, boy? What are you? Tok’ra?"

Charlie stared at him defiantly, and said nothing.

Releasing his hold on the youngster’s face, Min turned away. "Bring him along. I shall take my time getting my answers," he paused, turning back to the boy, eyes flashing, "but be assured, get them I will."

/--------\

He was too late.

By the time Jack reached the base of the hill, heart thumping from the exertion, the Gould and his guards had turned their mounts back toward the mine, taking Charlie with them.

For a moment, Jack stared after them, mind racing faster than his still hammering heart. Quickly deciding what he had to do, he turned away, jogging back to the deserted village that was their hiding place. Digging under the blankets, he pulled out the Jaffa armor Charlie had worn when he’d helped Jack escape.

He didn’t really have a plan now. He’d have to think of one on the way but that was something he’d always been good at, thinking on his feet. All he knew was that he had to get into Min’s palace and save Charlie.

O’Neill struggled into the armor. He’d worn it before, long years ago when he’d needed to escape from Apophis’ palace when they’d gone to Chulak to rescue Ry’ac. It was awkward, heavy and uncomfortable, but it was also a nearly infallible disguise.

Once dressed, Jack turned and, with staff weapon in hand, started toward the road.

The day was warm, the armor heavy, and it took him only a few minutes to realize he probably wasn’t as recovered as he thought he was. He kept the hood open until he was close to the mine compound, but even then, he was drenched in sweat and fighting for every breath. Finally, he took a break, recovering his wind before marching up the last small hill. At the bridge on the edge of town, he simply waved at the guards who obligingly opened the gate for him, and stepped inside.

He shuddered as he passed through the entryway, remembering the despair he’d felt the first time he’d walked through it, chained, beaten and alone. What he was doing now, it was foolhardy, he knew that, one man against a dozen or more was poor odds at best, especially considering the Jaffa had an alien strength far past his own.

To be honest, foolhardy wasn’t gonna cover it. Suicidal was certainly more apropos.

But he couldn’t abandon Charlie.

There *were* some things worth sacrificing your life for, he knew that, he lived by that rule, and this kid was one of them.

As O’Neill entered the compound, the slaves were being marched back to their quarters from the day’s work in the mine. He looked over at them, scared and defeated humans, resigned to their fate. Not so long ago he’d been one of them, yet not, because he’d never given up, never let go. He didn’t blame them, but he did pity them.

If this worked, he might be able to free them all.

If not, he’d be back among them.

If he was lucky.

More likely, he’d be unlucky and get another chance to finish that hung out to dry like laundry, baked-in-the-sun like a raisin ritual.

"Kree!"

O’Neill jumped. A Jaffa was beckoning to him. Jack had no choice but to follow. He helped the warrior open the slave quarter’s gate and herd the exhausted captives through the courtyard, trying not to look at the post where his blood still discolered the sand around its base.

That done, Jack followed the other Jaffa into Min’s palace.

He’d never been inside before, of course. He’d only seen it as he was dragged past on his way to the mines. Inside the thick stone walls, it was dim and cool despite the heat outside. He wanted to open the armor’s hood but didn’t dare. Though it was unlikely that anyone would recognize him, someone *might* notice the missing tattoo. So he kept the uncomfortable cowl up and marched clanking through the hallway, in search of his prey.

He found Min sooner than he expected. Gould were never hard to find, that was one of their failings, he thought wryly. The snakehead was strolling through the hallway in his gaudy clothes. Jack stopped, snapping to attention like a good Jaffa, holding his breath while the alien walked on by.

Min took no notice of the intruder as he moved down the corridor and turned right to enter a room. A single Jaffa stood guard there, saluting as the Goa’uld walked past, then returned to stand at parade rest in front of the ornately carved wooden double doors.

Perfect.

Acting like he belonged there, walking with the swaggering gait of a Jaffa, Jack strode down the hallway. Approaching the guard, he stopped. "Kree!" he ordered, then motioned the guard to move aside. Jack stepped up and took the guard’s place.

Without questioning, the guard left.

So far, so good.

All he had to do now was wait for his chance.

He could hear the sound of voices coming from within the room, the snake issuing orders.

Footsteps from within approached the doorway he was guarding, and the door opened, a servant backing out obsequiously. A few minutes later, the man returned with two others, each carrying trays of food, meat, bread, fresh fruit, enough food to feed all the mine’s slaves a good meal, Jack noted angrily.

The three men remained in Min’s room only a few minutes and left, chatting as they walked down the hall.

Jack listened carefully. The snake seemed to be alone. He waited impatiently, letting the minutes pass while it remained silent within.

It was time.

Once again acting like he belonged where he was, Jack simply turned and opened the doors, closing them securely behind him, then flipping the latch to lock them.

"Who is there?" Min called out.

Silently, Jack walked into the room, noting the soft carpet on the floor, the colorful tapestries lining the wall, and the rich aroma of food. The gould was half reclining on something that looked like a daybed, picking through a plate of fruit. The bastard lived in the lap of luxury while good men and terrified boys died, dirty and malnourished, in the mines, Jack thought, anger seething through him.

The snake sat up. "Why have you entered my private chambers unbidden, Jaffa?"

"I have a message to deliver." Jack’s voice was distorted by the armored hood he wore.

"Open your mask. Show your face to your God when you speak," Min ordered.

"You are not my god." O’Neill raised the staff weapon, pointing it at the snake as he activated it, the end opening with a snap and hiss.

Min jumped to his feet. "What is the meaning of this?"

"Trick or treat, snakeboy." Jack snapped open his helmet.

The Goa’uld stared at him. "I do not know you. What is your name? What are you doing here?" he demanded.

"Guess I look different without all the dirt and the blood, huh?"

"Who are you?"

"O’Neill, two Ls. Colonel Jack O’Neill of the Tau’ri."

The Gould jumped to his feet, eyes flashing. "The Tau’ri who escaped… You will not escape again. How dare you intrude here--"

"I dare on behalf of all those you’ve killed on this world."

A look of contempt crossed the haughty face. "They are peasants who live only on my whim."

"You know, I’ll say this for you snakes. You’ve got ego. No fashion sense, no style and definitely nothing but bad taste, but you’ve cornered the market on ego."

"You cannot escape this place."

Jack smiled. "Really? There’s an old Earth saying, I know it’s a cliché, but maybe you’ve heard of it? Hide in plain sight." He waved a hand at the warrior’s armor he wore. "I’m just one more Jaffa among many."

Without warning, the Gould spun, thrusting his arm into the air, hand raised, his palm extended. Light reflected off the gold and jeweled hand device.

"Ach!" Jack sidestepped as he raised the staff weapon higher. "I wouldn’t do that if I were you," he warned.

Min lowered his hand. "So you have come here for revenge?"

"I’ve come for the boy."

"What boy?" Min casually reached for a goblet that sat on the table beside the tray of food. He raised it to his lips and drank deeply before setting it aside once more. "Oh, do you mean the Tok’ra?"

"That would be him. Where is he?"

"Around here somewhere."

Jack took a step closer, his tone harsher. "What have you done with the boy?"

"Oh, I believe he is still alive. Though, actually, that may be an overly optimistic assessment." Taunting the human, Min raised the cup once more, smiling smugly, nodding slightly at O’Neill as he drank.

With a flick of his wrist, he threw the cup.

Hot liquid hit O’Neill’s face. Instinctively, his eyes snapped closed.

In that instant, the Goa’uld was on him, his alien strength pulling the staff weapon out of O’Neill’s hand. Half blinded, Jack swung his fist. The armor lent power to the impact and Min went down.

Moving quickly despite the bulk of the suit, the human dived for the staff weapon.

The gould pushed himself to his knees and flung out his hand. The jeweled alien weapon spat out a beam, striking O’Neill’s armor, sending sparks flying. The blow knocked Jack off his feet, throwing him into the wall. Despite the armor, the force of the impact left O’Neill on his knees, momentarily stunned.

"Die, Tau’ri!" The hand device fired once again, striking the human in the back.

The beam hit the armor and began to heat it.

"Ahhhhhhhhh," Jack’s shout was half pain, half rage as he scrambled across the floor. His fumbling fingers grasped the staff weapon, swinging it around, firing it.

The blast hit Min’s hand, and the hand device.

The gould screamed and the beam died, the snake’s alien weapon sparking and smoking. With his left hand, the alien ripped the smoldering device from his arm and reached into his belt. Finding the dagger he kept hidden there, he lunged toward O’Neill. He knew where the armor was vulnerable, knew how to thrust the knife to penetrate between the protective layers of metal.

As Min closed in, Jack used the staff weapon like a club to batter at his attacker even as he felt the knife slide inside the armor and bite into his skin.

Min slipped, the knife failing to completely reach its mark.

Jack fell back, bringing the unwieldy staff weapon around once more, triggering it as he hit the floor.

This time, the blast took the Gould in the chest, creating a smoking, charred crater. Min stopped, a look of shocked disbelief on his face as he shuddered, then slowly crumpled to the floor. The alien’s eyes flashed once before the light in them faded away.

Jack used the staff weapon to lever himself upright, gasping as he straightened. Stepping forward, he cautiously kicked at the still form, reassuring himself the snake was dead.

A thumping noise behind him caused O’Neill to spin around, staggering, needing the staff weapon once again to steady himself. Someone was pounding on the doors, shouting something he didn’t understand. It didn’t matter, though, because obviously, someone out there had heard the sound of weapon’s fire.

The pounding noise increased, accompanied by an ominous cracking of splintering wood.

Crap.

They’d be inside in seconds.

Jack raked his gaze across the room, searching for an avenue of escape.

There, another door. He hurried across the room. The door opened into a small passageway, barely large enough for his armored form to fit through. As he pulled the door closed behind him, he heard another loud crack from the room he’d just left, and the sound of running feet.

They were in the room behind him.

Jack hurried forward, finding yet another door. He opened it to discover it was some sort of closet. The next door opened into another room where he could hear voices. He turned a corner and the passageway dead-ended.

Shit.

He spun around, searching, searching… wait, there, a tiny, fine line, maybe a doorway. Fingers scrabbling along the wall, his searching hands found the rough edges of a small engraving. Desperately, he pushed on it, and it gave.

The tiny line grew wider.

Jack gripped the edge of the doorframe and pulled, a surge of adrenaline giving him strength. Slowly it opened. He was looking at a circular stairway that led down into darkness.

With no other choice, he took it.

Trotting down the stairs, he kept one hand on the wall to steady himself. He wasn’t one to be bothered with vertigo, but, oddly, the sharp angle of the stairway seemed to be throwing his balance off a bit. Must be the armor, he told himself. And the darkness.

He was sure it didn’t have anything to do with the warm blood he could feel trickling slowly, damply, down his ribcage.

The cut *was* only superficial, he assured himself.

The stairway ended abruptly.

A heavy wooden door barred his way.

He paused, fighting to quiet his breathing so he could listen.

There was no sound of life on the other side.

Cautiously lifting the bar that secured the door, Jack pushed it open a few inches. A thin shaft of flickering light filtered through.

That was a good sign.

Jack took a deep breath and yanked opened the door all the way.

He was in a hallway, lit by torchlight.

Quickly, he closed the door behind him. Which way to go? There seemed to be more light off to his left, so he turned that way, walking cautiously.

After a minute or so, he could hear voices ahead.

O’Neill stopped, waiting impatiently as the voices and accompanying footsteps faded away.

Twenty feet ahead, he found a cross corridor. This one was wider and more brightly lit, and though it was hard to be sure because of the way sound echoed off the stone walls, it seemed to be the direction the voices had gone. Jack walked carefully, trying to make as little noise as possible, which wasn’t easy in the bulky metal armor.

There were more doors here, rooms off to the side. He checked each one to make sure none was being used as a cell. Several contained bottles of wine, others held boxes and boxes of produce.

A food and wine cellar.

There was no sign of Charlie.

At the end of the hall, he found a set of stairs going up, steep and winding.

With a sigh, he started to climb.

He was sweating and winded by the time he neared the top of the stairs. God, this so wasn’t his day. It hadn’t been his day since he’d set foot on the damn planet, to be honest about it.

When he finally reached the top, the palace’s main floor, Jack found chaos.

There was still a lot of shouting going on, and he wished he understood the words. People were scurrying around, and there was what he could only describe as wailing coming from the area he thought was Min’s room. Apparently, some people were mourning the death of their ‘god’. The rest were undoubtedly hunting his killer.

None of this was going to help him find Charlie, however.

Hurrying through the hallways, no one paid any attention to him. There were Jaffa searching all around, and O'Neill just blended in amid the frenetic activity. He didn’t bother to put the armor’s hood back up, that might be too conspicuous in the cluttered hallways. The Jaffa skull cap covered his gray hair, and when he’d been a prisoner here, he’d been unshaven and filthy. As long as he didn’t come too directly face to face with any of the Jaffa or guards, Jack was confident no one would recognize him, or notice the missing tattoo.

He checked every room in the main wing, walking through the kitchen but skipping the servants quarters, and finally, paused. Where else could Charlie be?

The stables, not likely. The slave quarters, also not likely. Min would have wanted to interrogate the boy, because he had known Charlie was a Tok’ra.

The only place left was the Jaffas' living quarters.

Squaring his shoulders, once more acting like he belonged, Jack simply left the house and strode across the compound and into the warrior’s barracks like it was something he did every day.

Funny, he’d been in military barracks all over Earth, and these weren’t much different. Cruder and more primitive, true, but basically the same: a room full of double decker bunks, a communal area, a weapons room, a dining hall, and a latrine.

The building was silent and deserted, the Jaffa obviously all taking part in the hunt for him, actually, which he found grimly humorous. Taking a chance, O’Neill called out, softly, "Charlie?"

A tentative voice answered, "Who’s there?"

"Charlie, it’s Jack."

"Jack," there was excitement in the voice. "I’m in here. Down here, in here!"

O’Neill followed the sound. In a back corner, behind the last row of neatly made bunks, was a heavy wooden door. There were bars on the only window set high in it. Peering into the dim interior, Jack saw the boy lying on the floor, chained.

The door was locked, but a large key ring, heavy with a variety of keys, hung on a peg in the wall just a few feet away. Praying the right one would be there, Jack tried each key in the lock, starting with the largest one.

It fit.

The door opened with an audible creak.

The boy was sitting up, his cheek discolored, his clothes stained with dirt and what looked like blood.

O’Neill knelt down, the movement drawing a sharp stab of pain in his side, but he bit back the groan. No use worrying the boy he thought as he began trying the keys in the lock that secured the chains.

"You okay?" he asked, trying the first key in the lock on the shackles.

"Sha’ban took care of it," Charlie answered. "It hurt at first, but not now."

"Good." Even as he talked, Jack kept trying more keys. There were a lot of them, and no way to tell which one might work. One by one, fingers fumbling with the unfamiliar shapes, he tried them, his worry growing. It was taking too long. If anyone came into the barracks, they would be trapped.

"Did you kill him?" the boy asked.

Jack didn't left his head from his task. "Who?"

"Min."

"Yes. He left me no choice."

O’Neill tried another key, and it stuck in the lock. "Damn!" He wrenched at it, needing long seconds to pull it free.

"Take your time."

To Jack, the harmonic toned voice of Sha’ban just seemed so totally wrong emanating from Charlie’s mouth. Still, he heeded the words, taking a deep calming breath, and started again.

He was almost at the end of the key ring. What if the key wasn’t here? Inserting the second to last key into the lock, he felt it give, heard metal click, and the shackles opened.

Jack breathed a sigh of relief. Without wasting any more time, they left the cell, starting across the barracks, toward the doorway.

The boy stopped. "What if someone sees us?" Charlie asked.

"You’ll be my prisoner. Wait here." Jack quickly stepped back across the barracks and into the weapons room. He snatched a loop of rope off a shelf, then paused to help himself to several other items that could prove useful. There were a stack of zats there as well, and he took two, keeping one for himself, handing the other to the boy. "Hide that under your shirt." Next he handed over the rope. "Loop this around your wrists so they look tied. Carefully," he added, angrily noting the abrasions on the boys slender wrists. He showed the boy the other round, softball sized items he’d found. "Are these what I think they are?"

Once again it was Sha’ban who answered. "They are Goa’uld explosive devices, similar to grenades."

"Good. Are you ready?"

Charlie nodded.

"Okay, we’re going over there first," he pointed toward the slave quarters. "Just follow my lead, and when I tell you, you run like hell."

They stepped out into the courtyard, brazenly crossing it and pausing in front of the gate to the slave compound. It was nearly dark, and Jack could hear the soft noises of the men inside. Pulling one of the items he’d taken from the weapons room out of his tunic, he set the timer and placed it beside the gate.

"Okay, now that way." Jack waved an arm toward the palace.

They walked briskly back across the open ground, pausing once more beside the stairs up to the Gould’s residence. Jack set one of the round silver balls beside the stairs, and another along the wall of Min’s palace.

"Okay, we’re out of here. Go." For the third time, they crossed the courtyard at a steady walk, this time heading for the gate.

The portal was closed, and a pair of Jaffa guards stood there.

"Sha tak mak dee! An tak nak tal bin grok dom Min!"

"The gate is closed," Charlie whispered, interpreting. "No one may leave until the killer of Min is found."

Jack smiled, surreptitiously slipping his hand toward his belt. In one quick move, he swept up the zat and fired two rapid shots. The Jaffa crumpled to the ground. "Sorry, boys, that’s one order we aren’t gonna follow," he muttered, stepping over the bodies and prying open the gate.

He looked down at his watch. "Any second now, any sec--"

Boom! The first explosive device, the one at the slave compound gate, went off. Debris rained down and the air was filled with a roiling cloud of dust and smoke that nearly obscured the sight of the old mud brick wall splitting and cracking. The massive gate splintered and fell open.

Shouting figures began to exit the palace, two Jaffa were halfway down the stairs when the second and third devices exploded. The stairs crumpled, the wall of the palace shuddering, cracking and breaking off, bringing the roof down with it.

More smoke and dust billowed out to fill the air, creating a choking cloud that provided cover for his next move.

Jack was running.

Not out the main gate, but back toward the slave compound. The slaves inside were standing, staring out of the opening, too afraid to move. "Come on, get out!" Jack waved.

They simply stared.

Then another voice ordered "Mal gra tak!"

The slaves began to run.

Jack turned and side by side with Charlie, sprinted for the outer gate, the prisoners following at their heels. A bulky figure appeared suddenly in the smoky, murky air directly in front of him, and without pausing O’Neill zatted him.

They ran on toward the exit, ignoring the shouts of panicked confusion wafting from the direction of the ruined palace.

The two downed Jaffa Jack had shot earlier were climbing groggily to their feet. O’Neill zatted them each one more time and they went down in a tangle, opening the pathway out of the compound.

How the hell does Teal’c do it? Jack wondered as he ran. The Jaffa armor felt like it weighed a ton, but he forced himself on, down the hill and out toward the bridge.

Two more Jaffa stood there, staff weapons raised.

Jack raised a hand, and Charlie rattled off another string of words O’Neill didn’t understand.

The surging mass of freed prisoners behind them slowed and paused.

Thankfully, lungs heaving, Jack dropped to a walk, moving toward the waiting Jaffa who looked puzzled, but maintained their threatening stance.

Stepping closer, smiling, one hand behind his back, he waved at the pair with the other arm. "Hey, you, Kree!" He snapped the zat around and fired, one guard falling, the other taken down by Charlie’s simultaneous shot.

The bridge was now open.

Jack waved at the former slaves to follow, then started across. Once on the far side, he took out the last of the devices he’d filched from the weapons room.

"Wait!" Charlie shouted, sprinting back across the gate. A pair of the camel-elephant-beasts were there, tied to a tree, and the boy untied the reins. Turning, he led the creatures back across the gate at a run.

As soon as the youngster was clear, Jack took three strides back out onto the bridge, set the armed explosive down, and ran.

The explosion all but knocked him off his feet as the bridge heaved and shuddered. Shattered beams and broken timbers began falling into the cascading water.

Jack was standing, hands on hips, his smudged face grim, fighting to slow his still racing heartbeat and to fill his still straining lungs. Looking up, he saw the prisoners standing, staring at him. "What are they waiting for?"

"They don’t know what to do," Charlie answered.

"They can do anything they want. Why are they just standing here?"

"They think that you’re a Jaffa, that you’re their guard."

"You’re free, go," he waved a hand at them, but they stood, mute. "Tell them. Tell them to get out of here, go home, find their families."

"You think they’re still alive?" the boy asked.

Jack shook his head. "Probably not. But they can try at least. So tell ‘em."

Charlie began translating.

Jack didn’t understand the words, but it was obvious when the realization hit them. Their faces transformed from the hopeless, fearful look of slaves into expressions of sudden amazement and hope. O’Neill watched them leave, swiftly and silently disappearing into the forest.

"C’mon, we’d better vamoose ourselves." Jack took the reins of one of the animals. It was a good thing they were short, because it took an amazing amount of effort to lift his foot up into the stirrup of the saddle-like gear they wore. Ignoring the sharp pain the effort cost him, he turned the "horse" and headed down the road, toward the Stargate.

/----------\

They rode until it was well after dark, and they had put the mine, the Jaffa and the dead Gould far behind them. Twice they had to leave the road when they heard rapid hoofbeats approaching from behind them. Huddled off in the trees, Jack and Charlie watched as riders passed by, going toward the Stargate.

It meant that the gate would most likely still be guarded, heavily guarded now, but Jack knew there had been too many for him and the boy to stop.

He didn’t know what they’d find when they reached the gate. They might even have to hide out on the planet for a while, Jack acknowledged. They’d have to figure it out once they got there and had a chance to assess the situation. If they were lucky, maybe all the Jaffa were fleeing through the gate, now that their master was dead.

As if that was likely to happen, O’Neill thought unhappily, too weary to worry about the future. It was pretty much taking all the energy he had just to keep riding. The saddle-thing didn’t seem to be very effective at helping keep a rider settled in the middle of the beast’s back. The things also seemed to have gaits as awkward and rough as anything he’d ever ridden.

Of course, the headache throbbing deep in his skull probably wasn’t helping. He’d removed the Jaffa skull cap, but even that didn’t seem to help.

The sun set and the landscape darkened. The early moon was up, providing enough light for them to continue riding, but soon it would set and then it would be too risky to continue.

It was time to find a place to camp.

When they came to a path that branched off the main road, they took it, riding up into the sheltering pitch-blackness of the trees. The dark under the forest canopy was so absolute that Jack couldn’t even see the mule-like ears of the creature he rode, but had to trust to the animal’s ability to blindly pick a path. Jack felt them climb a small rise and then descend.

"I think this is a good spot," Charlie said suddenly. "We’re sheltered from the road here."

"It is?" O’Neill couldn’t see a thing except total blackness.

"Sha’ban says it is. He can see better than we can."

"Okaaay then." Jack pulled his beast to a stop. Stiffly, he pulled his foot from the right stirrup to dismount and stepped down. The movement tore loose the cloth where his blood caked shirt was stuck to the ragged edges of the knife cut on his ribcage. "Gawwddd." He stumbled as a sudden wave of dizziness swept over him, and he made a desperate grab for the animal’s neck to keep his balance. He clung to the beast, his knees all wobbly, weakness washing through him.

"Jack?"

"Yeah?"

"You okay?"

"Peachy. Just a little stiff. Haven’t ridden a, ah," he paused, not knowing what to call it, and deciding to go with the familiar, "a ‘camel-thing’ in a really long time."

"You don’t sound very good," the boy sounded worried.

Jack was still leaning on the animal, grateful for the shielding effect of the darkness. "I’ll be okay in a minute soon as I get my land legs back." Loosening his grip on the creature, O’Neill straightened biting back a groan. He took a step away from the animal, staggered and slipped to his knees.

The boy was immediately beside him. "Jack?"

"Tripped," he lied. "Rocks." Trying not to lean too much on Charlie, Jack hauled himself to his feet, taking another shaky step.

"You’re hurt."

"Thought it wasn’t much," he admitted, letting the youngster help him.

"Sit down, here," Charlie told him, once again taking charge, just as he had the other time he’d rescued Jack.

The boy helped O'Neill out of the Jaffa armor, setting it aside. Taking matches from his pack, Charlie lit a small fire. "What happened?" he asked as he worked, fanning the tiny spark into life.

"Min had a knife." Jack pulled up his shirt and removed the cloth he’d stuffed inside his shirt as a bandage, revealing the deep, leaking cut that ran along the outline of a rib on his left side.

"There’s a lot of blood," the boy sounded worried.

Jack nodded. "That happens when you keep moving. It’ll stop, now that I’m still," he told Charlie optimistically.

"Sha’ban says maybe not."

Jack slid down to lie on the Jaffa cloak he was using as a blanket. "Sha’ban doesn’t know everything, not about humans."

"He knows a lot," Charlie defended.

"I’m sure he does," O’Neill let his eyes close, too tired to argue.

"He says we have to do something, to make sure the bleeding stops." Even by the dim firelight, Jack could see the look of horror on the boy’s young face. "Something he calls cauterizing."

"No." He wasn’t going to let the boy be a party to it. "I’ll be okay."

"You will not." It was no longer Charlie speaking, but Sha’ban. "Do not be so stubborn, O’Neill."

"I can’t have the kid…" Jack waved a hand in the air. "It’s unpleasant." For the cauterizer, and the cautaurizee, he knew from personal experience.

"I will spare the boy, and do it for him," Sha’ban insisted.

"It’s not enough. He’ll know. He’ll have to watch."

"But the work will not be done by his hands. He will feel no guilt for your pain, only relief that you will be well."

Jack sighed, knowing you never could win an argument with a Tok’ra, whether in your own head, or someone else’s, he thought bitterly.

The Tok’ra stirred up the fire, and set his knife blade in the flames.

Jack made himself as comfortable as he could on his blankets, pulling up his shirt to reveal the still bleeding cut.

Sha’ban tore a piece of cloth from his shirt, folding it carefully into a thick wad. "Bite down on this," he instructed, handing it to O’Neill. "Sound carries a long way in the forest."

Jack took the cloth, gulped down a deep breath, and stuffed the gag into his mouth.

Sha’ban raised the knife.

Jack nodded.

Red hot metal touched cool flesh.

Jack writhed, arching his back, a moan escaping past the gag in the split second before, thankfully, consciousness left him.

Sha’ban held the knife steady, wrinkling his nose at the sickly odor of burning flesh, silently counting the seconds.

When he was done, he set the knife aside. The charred edges of the wound in O’Neill’s side were no longer bleeding.

/--------\

Jack opened his eyes slowly, surprised to encounter daylight. Despite the fact that he’d slept unusually late, he was still tired. "What time is it?"

"An hour past sunrise," the boy answered.

"We should have been on the road."

"Sha’ban said I should let you sleep," the boy explained. "He says you need rest, and a doctor."

"I’ll be fine when we get home. Back to Earth."

Jack tried again to sit up, a sharp pain in his side making him groan, but making it upright on the second try.

"You don’t look fine. Or sound fine."

"Yeah, well, I *am* fine. And I’m the one who ought to know."

Charlie shook his head in disagreement. "Sha’ban says--"

O’Neill cut him off. "Sha’ban is a Tok’ra and what he doesn’t know about humans could fill volumes, could fill the whole damn library in fact."

The boy looked unhappy, conflicted between the two beings who had saved his life: the human who had befriended him, and the symbiote who was his life-companion. "I know that you hate the Tok’ra--"

"I don’t *hate* them. I *hate* the Gould. The Tok’ra I just-- dislike. A lot," Jack admitted, trying to muster up the energy to crawl out of his blankets. God, he was tired. Hurting. Worn out. Day after day of hard living, ever since he’d arrived on this sad excuse for a world, had taken its toll.

"They aren’t so bad," Charlie insisted.

"Some of them are okay," Jack conceded.

"I understand why you feel the way you do. I know what happened, what Kanan did. But you shouldn’t think that the rest of the Tok’ra are like him."

"Charlie, I understand."

"No, I don’t think you do," the boy stood, walking quickly away, busying himself with the beasts.

Jack sighed. Levering himself up off the ground, he bit his lip and staggered away to relieve himself. When he emerged from the trees a few minutes later, Charlie was back to being his usual, cheerful self.

The issue was ignored.

/-----------\

They rode long and steady through the day and arrived at the Stargate just before nightfall. Hiding the horses in the trees, O’Neill and the boy worked their way as close to the gate as they dared.

"Damn!" it was as bad as Jack had feared. The Stargate was still guarded by a dozen or more Jaffa.

They were trapped.

"Why are they still here? Why don’t they just go home?" the boy asked.

"Jaffa are trained not to leave their posts."

"But Min is dead. Don’t they know?"

"I’m sure they’ve heard. But Jaffa are used to having someone tell them what to do."

There was a puzzled frown on Charlie’s face. "Teal’c is smart. He isn't like that, he thinks for himself."

"Yes, he does. But it was hard for him at first. It’s one of the things the Gould do, they make the Jaffa dependent on them. It makes them easier to dominate and control."

"So what will they do?"

"They may just carry on following their last orders, staying here until another Gould shows up to tell them what to do."

"That could be a long time."

Jack sighed. "Yes, a very long time."

"You could stay here," the boy noted, hopefully.

"I have a job to go home to Charlie, you know that." Though he had completely ignored the consequences of his actions, to be honest, it was highly unlikely he had a military career left back on Earth. It was much more likely that there’d be a jail cell waiting. He’d disregarded a direct order from his commanding officer, taken leave without approval, and in fact gone AWOL, which had never been the smartest career move in any military organization.

"You said you might be in trouble for coming here after me," Charlie asked.

Damn, the boy hadn’t forgotten, or Sha’ban had told him. "That’s true. But I still need to go back. A man has to stand up and take the consequences of his actions." Besides, much as he didn’t want to admit it, O’Neill knew he needed to make a little visit to Janet Fraiser’s territory for some repair. Pretty soon, too, the rotten way he was feeling.

Charlie was quiet for a while. "I’m sorry you got in trouble because of me."

"I am not in trouble because of you. I’m in trouble, *if* I am in trouble," he added optimistically for the boy’s sake, because he knew he was, "because of Jacob and the Tok’ra."

"But I am Tok’ra, too."

"That’s not true--"

"You don’t like it, but I am Tok’ra, Jack."

O’Neill closed his eyes, banishing the thought.

"If you hate the Tok’ra, you hate me."

"You’re just a kid."

"A kid with a symbiote."

Jack ran a hand over his face. This was exactly the kind of conundrum he hated thinking about. Just like with Jacob, most of the time Jack could pretty much ignore the reality of the boy carrying a snake. Jacob, and Charlie, looked human and acted human and, with rare exceptions, it was easy to think of them *as* human. Even though they weren’t.

He was good at denial. It was one of his more outstanding traits.

O’Neill shuddered, remembering what it had been like to be… one of them. He’d never been a *real* Tok’ra, he reminded himself, he’d never have let them do it if he hadn’t been dying. Even then, he’d never consented to a full… bonding, never agreed to keep the snake. Still, he couldn’t ever forget the wrongness of it, of an invading stranger inside his head, the violation of his most private thoughts and memories, the terror of being confined within his own body when Kanan took control—

"Jack?" Charlie was looking at him apprehensively. "Are you okay?"

"Just a bad memory," he deflected the boy’s concern. "So we need to come up with a plan, a diversion to draw the Jaffa away from the gate."

Charlie was staring straight ahead, as if listening to something, or someone, inside his head, Jack thought uneasily.

"Sha’ban has an idea," the boy said after a while.

Jack simply raised an eyebrow.

"He says we can give the Jaffa a new Gould."

"What?"

It was the Tok’ra’s resonant voice that answered. "I shall command them. They will recognize and obey the voice of Min."

"But Min is dead," Jack objected.

"They believe he is a god, that he cannot be killed," Sha’ban explained. "They will follow my orders."

"You don’t look like him."

"Then we shall simply wait until dark. We need only a few minutes, and the sound of my voice, to fool them."

"I don’t like it. It’s too risky." There was something wrong with the whole idea of Charlie, who had already risked his life to save Jack, and more than once, risking it again, when it had been Jack’s mission to Bortran to rescue the boy.

The old eyes of the Tok’ra were still peering out of Charlie’s young face. "Do not let your ego stand in the way of his safety."

"I’m not," Jack snapped, and knew that he was.

"Do you have a better plan, O’Neill?"

"No," the human admitted reluctantly.

"Then we shall use my plan this evening," Sha’ban insisted, and this time, Jack did not disagree. "Rest, O'Neill, so you will be ready. I shall stand watch."

/--------\

"O’Neill."

The Tok’ra’s voice woke him. He’d slept most of the day, despite the steady ache in his side, or maybe because of it.

"Drink this."

Gratefully, Jack sat up and accepted the waterskin, drinking deeply. He still felt too warm, headachy and tired, despite all the sleep. A bad sign, he knew; it was likely he was running a fever.

"Anything new?" he asked, taking another long drink of the refreshing water.

"Nothing." In the dim moonlight that filtered through the trees, O’Neill could just barely see the boy’s face.

"So what’s the plan?"

Sha’ban was still speaking. "I will step forward, from the trees. You will follow me. Once I have given them orders, move quickly to the gate and dial Earth."

"Ah, we, ah, we can’t go there. I don’t have a GDO."

"A GDO?"

"Earth’s gate is protected by an iris. The SGC won’t open the iris without the proper codes. I doubt mine would still work, even if I had a GDO, which I don’t, so that’s pointless," Jack explained. "But don’t worry, I know another location we can go to, sort of an intermediary stop."

"You must dial quickly."

"Oh, when I need to, my fingers can do the walkin’ real fast, buddy."

/----------\

"Jaffa! Kree! Bow before your God Min!" Aided by the distinctive tone of voice, the words were like magic. All the Jaffa snapped to attention, then dropped to their knees, heads bowed.

Sha’ban stepped forward, Jack walking two paces behind. The Tok’ra was wearing a robe-like cloak they’d fashioned out of a blanket, complete with a hood that mostly hid his face.

"Lord Min!"

"Master!"

"Our god lives!"

Eyes glowing, Sha’ban waved a dismissive hand, and the warriors fell quiet. He nodded to Jack, who headed for the DHD, then the Tok’ra turned to address the Jaffa. "Why are you here? Who guards my home? Who keeps the slaves in their quarters? Who protects my mine?"

"Lord, we feared you dead," said one, tentatively.

"We were *told* you were dead."

"You *were* dead," another spoke up boldly. "I saw your body, lifeless."

"I am a god. Gods do not die." Sha’ban’s eyes flashed, glowing once more.

"*You *were *dead*."

In another time and another place, Jack might have admired the courage of the dissenting Jaffa. But not now, not here, not when he and Charlie were so close to home.

"You can see I live still, Korsh."

Damn. He knew Korsh, remembered him. Min’s first prime, and the one who had enjoyed inflicting pain, punishment, even death on Min’s slaves. A surge of hatred roared through Jack’s veins, adding to the adrenaline already flowing there. He punched in the first of the seven symbols that made up the address.

"You *were* dead," the Jaffa contradicted.

"I am your God!"

"You are leaving? You cannot leave."

Jack’s gut twisted, he didn’t like the direction this conversation was going. He tapped out each additional symbol as quickly as he could, even as he listened to the conversation going on behind him.

"I will do as I please," Sha’ban was playing his part to the hilt.

Korsh raised his head and peered more closely at the figure who stood before him. "You are not Min!"

"I am your God!" Sha’ban pulled his hand out of his improvised robe and zatted Korsh.

All hell broke loose. The Jaffa jumped to their feet.

"Stand fast!" Sha’ban ordered.

They stopped, uncertain, but the instinct to obey an order issued in those harmonic tones was too strong to be denied.

"My lord, you cannot leave us," a Jaffa pleaded.

"When I have gone, you must go as well. Return to your home world."

"But my lord--"

"Jaffa Kree! That is my order! Return to your home world and await further orders. Do as I say. Your god commands it." With that, Sha’ban pulled the robe more closely around Charlie's small body and stalked toward the gate, waving a beckoning hand at O’Neill. "You, come with me!"

Jack followed Sha’ban up the steps and, without pause, they stepped into the gate.

A moment of disorientation, of intense, bitter cold, and then they stumbled out of the gate and into darkness.

"Halt!"

The voice was human, and the words in English. Jack’s joy at the familiarity of his native language was offset by the distinctive sound of weapons being cocked.

"We’re halting! We’re halting! Don’t shoot!" Jack stopped and threw up his arms, Sha’ban/Charlie following his lead.

"Identify yourselves." The voice sounded hostile and suspicious.

"I’m Colonel Jack O’Neill, SG-1. And this is Charlie, he’s with me. He’s an ally, a Tok’ra."

"Colonel O’Neill?" There was surprise in the voice.

"Yes. You can put down your weapons, airman."

"Sorry, Sir, you know I can’t do that. You’ve been listed as missing, and possibly in the hands of hostiles."

"Look…" Jack started to lower his hands.

"Keep ‘em up!"

"Of for cryin’ out loud… I’m one of the good guys."

"Sir, at this time, we don’t know that. And as you know, Colonel, all personnel who may have been in enemy hands must be considered compromised until we can confirm otherwise."

"Airman…"

"I’m Captain Rosario, Sir."

"Captain, do what you have to do, but get a message to Stargate Command."

"I will, Sir, now, I need you to drop to your knees and lace your fingers behind your head."

"My knees aren’t up to this, son."

"Sorry, Sir, but it’s SOP."

"I know," Jack sighed, looking over at Charlie’s frightened face. "Just do as he says. We’ll get this cleared up in a few minutes."

/-----------\

It took a lot more than a few minutes.

They were searched, and the zats and their knives taken away. With a half dozen guns pointed directly at him, and more importantly, two more at Charlie, Jack was carefully watched as he stripped off the Jaffa armor and was ordered back to his knees.

Once they were cuffed, hands behind their backs, Jack and Charlie were marched away to the detention area of the Alpha Site and locked in one of the small cells.

Despite his exhaustion, Jack paced.

After a few minutes, the boy asked, quietly, "Are we in trouble?"

Jack turned to look down where the boy was huddled on the bunk. The kid had to be worn out and scared to boot, he realized suddenly. Jack smiled reassuringly. "No, *we’re* not in trouble. Well, you’re not at least."

"But you’re in trouble for coming after me."

"Sort of. I might be. Yeah," Jack admitted. "I didn’t exactly wait for permission to go to Bortran after you."

"I’m sorry."

"You have nothing to be sorry for, Charlie. If I’m in trouble, it’s my trouble."

/-----------\

They waited for hours.

Jack had the distinct feeling that Hammond was doing it on purpose, letting him stew. Despite their friendship, O’Neill didn’t expect any leeway from the General. What he had done was a court-martialable offense, and he knew it.

Though he didn’t regret it.

The boy’s life was much more important than any punishment he might receive.

/-----------\

At long last, Rosario returned. "Colonel, I’ve got orders to take you and the boy back to earth."

"Good." Jack stepped up to the bars and turned around. "You can take these off now."

"No, Sir. The cuffs stay on."

Jack grumbled, but said nothing.

The two of them were marched back to the gate, waiting while Earth was dialed, the GDO code sent and acknowledged, and then, once again side by side, they stepped through the gate.

/-----------\

Jack stumbled out the other side, catching his balance barely in time to prevent an embarrassing tumble in front of the assembled security forces and a grim-faced General Hammond who stood at the base of the ramp.

"General Hammond, Sir," he acknowledged softly. Nothing like a bit of humility to hopefully blunt the anger.

It didn’t work. Hammond was clearly not pleased. "Take them both to the infirmary. Call me when their exams are finished," the general ordered and turned away.

A pair of SFs silently escorted the man and the boy to the infirmary.

Dr. Warner was on duty. The cuffs stayed in place and the SFs dogged their steps while the exams and tests were thoroughly, efficiently and impersonally conducted.

An hour later, Hammond strode into the room where Jack and Charlie sat waiting.

"So, Doctor?"

"DNA testing confirms that this is Colonel O’Neill, and the boy matches the DNA samples we have on hand from Charlie, the Reetou child. MRIs show Colonel O’Neill is symbiote free--"

"Thank God for small miracles, huh?" Jack snarked.

Warner glared at him, then looked down at the chart before addressing the general once more. "Colonel O’Neill has several unhealed injuries, none currently life-threatening, and a large number of new scars."

Hammond nodded at one of the SFs. "Uncuff the boy."

Charlie’s hands were freed and he pulled his arms around in front of him, rubbing at his wrists. "What about Jack?" he asked.

"Colonel O’Neill has a bit of explaining to do." The general turned once again to the security officer. "Put the boy in one of the VIP rooms. Post a guard outside. Take Colonel O’Neill to detention. I’ll speak to him in the morning."

"General, please…" the boy started.

"Not now, young man. I’ll talk to you in the morning as well." Hammond turned and was gone.

"Jack?" Charlie turned back to his friend.

"It’s okay," Jack told him, resigned. "You’ll be fine."

/-----------\

The cell wasn’t particularly uncomfortable. He’d been uncuffed, allowed to shower though not shave, provided with clean clothes, fed the best meal he’d had in weeks, even if it was only a MRE, and given blankets and a pillow for the cot. The light was left on, and there was a guard standing mutely outside, but it was better accommodations than he’d endured during the whole of the time he’d been offworld, he reminded himself. He was warm, clean, fed and his injuries treated.

He did hear the voices of his team once, from down the hall, asking to see him, but an SF answered that O’Neill was allowed no visitors, so they left. It made him feel better, though, to know they’d tried.

Despite the uncertainty over his fate, and with nothing else to do but worry, O’Neill curled up on the bunk and slept.

/-----------\

Hammond kept him waiting until mid-morning.

When the SFs finally came for him, Jack fingercombed his hair, tugged the worst of the wrinkles out of his shirt, and marched resolutely through the halls of the SGC.

Nobody smiled at him.

That was definitely *not* a good sign.

He waited outside the General’s closed office door for another fifteen minutes before he was finally escorted inside. O’Neill snapped to attention. He let his eyes drift down to check Hammond’s expression, then snapped them back forward when he noted the General’s glare.

Hammond dismissed the SFs and said nothing, continuing to write on a piece of paper on his desk, completely ignoring the man who stood before him.

Letting him sweat some more, Jack knew, and that was exactly what he was doing. He could actually feel his shirt getting damp. He had to fight to keep his posture rigid, his knees locked, and his eyes focused straight ahead. It had been a long time since he’d gotten himself into a jam of this magnitude, and Hammond was just waiting for him to flinch. Well, he was damned if he was going to.

Finally, the faint scritch-scritch sound of pen moving across paper ceased, and then the rustle of shuffling pages ended as well.

"So, Colonel O’Neill."

There was no warmth in the greeting. It was, in fact, decidedly neutral in tone, Jack decided, which he wasn’t sure how to interpret. And that was exactly what Hammond wanted, the Colonel was convinced. O'Neill remembered the first time he’d been summoned to this office to stand before this man, to account for his actions on that initial trip to Abydos. Had his time at the SGC come full circle, ending here, right back where it started, facing up to General Hammond’s wrath?

Jack heard the general’s chair creak, and chanced a quick flicker of his eyes to see that Hammond was sitting back in his seat, staring up at him.

"So what do you have to say for yourself, Colonel?"

"Sir, I was assisting an ally--"

"Don’t give me that bull, Colonel," Hammond snapped, sitting forward, arms on the big, heavy desk. "I’m not some greenhand at his first rodeo. And neither are you."

"It’s not bull, Sir. Both Jacob and Charlie are Tok’ra, and the Tok'ra are our allies. Sort of," he admitted grudgingly. "Besides, General, we can't forget that the boy was created for the purpose of saving us. He exists because of us."

"I haven’t forgotten the boy’s visit here, nor his purpose in coming to us." There was no warmth in the voice.

"Then you know that we owe him a debt. Without him, the Reetou--"

"We’re just recrossing old ground here, Colonel. Nothing you’ve said is anything new."

Jack straightened. "Sir, at the request of Jacob Carter, I went to the aid of an ally. Yes, there were personal considerations that contributed to my willingness to undertake that action. However, I do not regret my actions. I stand by them, and I will accept whatever punishment you deem appropriate. Sir."

He heard Hammond sigh. "Damn it Jack, can’t you ever do things the simple way? The by the book way?"

"I try, Sir," he answered honestly.

"You realize that your actions are subject to court martial?"

"Yes, Sir." He could be the good soldier, when he had to be. Though, honestly, he’d prefer not to.

"You know that you took it upon yourself to act without orders?"

"Yes, Sir." Nothing wrong with admitting the obvious.

"That you caused a great deal of concern for your team and consternation for me?"

"Yes, Sir. That I do regret, Sir."

"That your absence could have had grave consequences for this command?"

"Yes, Sir." What else could he say?

"Fortunately for you, Colonel, Jacob Carter backs up your story."

"Jacob?" Relief washed through him.

"Jacob showed up here and insisted that he’d been acting for the good of our alliance, and that you were performing a vital service. In fact, he said that he’d ordered you to go. And since he does have official standing with the U.S. Air Force, though a bit hazy in nature, and is still a general, of sorts, though the legality of any order he issued could be questioned--"

"Yes, Sir." A bit of hope was beginning to grow inside his chest. Or maybe it was just indigestion? The air in the room did seem to be getting thinner and thinner.

"--Therefore, you won’t be officially reprimanded."

"Yes, Sir," he muttered with relief, pretty sure he’d just set a record for saying those two words in one conversation. "Thank you, Sir."

"Don’t be thanking me. Thank Jacob Carter. This does not, however, mean you will get off scot free, Colonel."

"I didn’t expect to, Sir."

"I’m sure you didn’t." Hammond was still wearing his pissed-off commander look, one Jack recognized from far too many versions of it he’d seen over his entire career. "Colonel, you were out of communication for 43 days. You will be docked 43 days pay. You will also be assigned duties here in the mountain for the next 30 days, during which time you will clear up the backlog of paperwork on your desk, the backlog of paperwork on my desk, and conduct all personnel reviews, all assessments of potential new personnel, all new personnel introductory tours, and be restricted to base."

"Yes, Sir." It could have been worse, he told himself silently, it could have been a hundred times worse.

"And Colonel?"

"Yes, Si…" the room had grown ungodly hot, and everything had started to shudder and go gray, and then he felt himself slipping and thought ‘oh hell’.

"Colonel?" Hammond was on his feet, just as Jack’s knees buckled and he wavered, slumping bonelessly to the floor.

The general snatched the phone off his desk. "This is Hammond! Get a medical team in my office. Now!"

/-----------\

"So, Doctor, what’s wrong with him?" Hammond demanded. He was looking down at O’Neill, on a hospital bed in one of the isolation units of the infirmary. The young Tok’ra Charlie was seated beside him.

"Well, Sir, he’s running a high fever from a severe infection," explained Doctor Fraiser. "At first, like you, I feared it was an illness he’d picked up offworld, with a threat of an infectious contagion of some sort. However, after talking to Charlie, I discovered that Colonel O’Neill suffered a knife wound three days ago."

"A knife wound? Didn’t Doctor Warner--?"

"Doctor Warner found only a burn mark on the Colonel’s ribcage. Charlie explained that Sha’ban, his symbiote, had cauterized the wound to stop bleeding and prevent infection. However, the cauterization simply sealed over the source of the infection, making the situation worse instead of better, in fact. When he was checked over yesterday, the Colonel’s over all run down condition, and his weight loss of more than 20 pounds was noted, but there was nothing to indicate any acute medical problem that rest and good meals wouldn’t cure. However, overnight, the infection took hold and the Colonel’s fever spiked. We’re prepping him for immediate surgery, General. We’ll go in, open up the site of the infection, clean it out and allow it to drain. Barring further complications, his prognosis is excellent. I expect he’ll make a complete recovery."

/---------\/-----------\

Jack woke up in a familiar, and unwelcome, place, though he hadn’t a clue how he’d gotten there.

The last thing Jack remembered was standing in Hammond’s office, being read the riot act by one pissed off CO.

So, yeah, he might have expected to wake up in a cell, but in the infirmary?

Oiy.

Hammond sure did know how to mete out real punishment.

Though he didn’t think Doc would go along with it. Wouldn’t it be against her Hippocritical Oath-thingy to keep a healthy person to the infirmary?

Check that. He definitely wasn’t healthy. He felt like crap.

He opened his eyes, confirming what the sounds and smells had told him… he was in the infirmary. His body was just awake enough that he could tell that there were… things… inserted into his body there and other things taped on there and his mouth tasted like cotton soaked in chemicals.

He’d been in surgery.

He closed his eyes and tried to remember why, and then decided it wasn’t important because sooner or later someone would come and tell him why, and he was perfectly happy to wait.

/-----------\

When he woke again he wasn’t alone. Someone was sitting in the chair beside his bed. First he thought it was Daniel, but then he remembered it couldn’t be, because Daniel was gone, ascending in a higher plane, er, ascended to a higher plain. He was dreaming, that was it. All those chemicals the Docs pumped into a body, they did weird things to the brain. He smiled over at Daniel and drifted back to sleep.

/-----------\

"Jack?"

It must be Daniel again. Daniel was the only one who called him Jack. Well, Hammond did sometimes, but he remembered just enough of the last few days to know that he and the general were not currently on a first name basis. Not for a while, at least, not until he managed to work his way out of the dog house and back into his CO’s good graces.

"Jack, are you awake?"

That sounded like… he opened his eyes, squinting to focus. A boyish face with brown eyes and a bald head swam gradually into view. "Charlie?"

"Yes, it's me. Are you feeling better?"

"Um, much. Ready for… anything," he lied glibly.

Charlie smiled. "Doctor Fraiser says you’re making a spectacular recovery."

"Spectac’ lar, that’s me."

The boy frowned. "You almost died."

"Naw. Didn’t. Jus’ a ploy— wanted-- some sympathy-- from the general."

"He’s angry at you."

"S’pose so."

"But he was worried, too."

"Good… he’s a good man."

Charlie nodded agreement. "He’s been really nice. Jacob wanted me to go with him, but the General let me stay long enough so I could say goodbye to you."

Jack’s eyes opened wider, and he searched the side of his bed to find the controls, raising it so he could sit up a bit. "Goodbye? Already?"

"I have to go. Jacob found me a new place to stay, a new family--"

Groggy as he was, Jack didn’t miss the boy’s unhappy look.

"I’m glad it was you who came to find me, Jack."

"Me, too."

"I’m sorry you got into trouble for it."

Sitting up seemed to be helping to clear his head, or maybe it was just the importance of the conversation that had his brain cells firing more normally. "It’s okay. I've been in trouble before."

"Jacob said he fixed things with the general."

"Pretty much," or so Jack remembered, if he remembered right. That whole conversation with Hammond was a bit hazy. Oiy, he hoped it wasn’t a dream, anyway, his memory of the fact that he wasn’t about to hauled out of the SGC to Leavenworth. Just glued to a chair and stuck behind a desk for a month.

"Jacob says I’ll be going to a planet I’ll like. Will you come and visit, when I get settled in?"

"When I can," Jack promised, and knew he most likely wouldn't, at least, not very often. It was a failing of his, avoiding what was personal and painful.

The kid nodded.

Jack thought that the boy suddenly seemed far too small for the nearly grown up body he now inhabited. Of course, while he looked 16 or more, the kid in fact was really only a few years old, thanks to the Reetou creating him and accelerating his growth, aging him 10 years in the first few months of his existence.

A painful silence stretched for an endless moment.

"Jack," the boy looked up and met his gaze, the youthful brown eyes looking far too old. "You don't have to feel guilty."

"I don't--" he denied.

"Yes, you do. You blame yourself for sending me to the Tok'ra to get a symbiote."

Jack shrugged, admitting nothing.

"I was just a little kid, too small to decide about accepting Sha’ban. But I don't mind. He kept me alive. And he keeps me company."

"You should be a regular kid--"

"I never was a regular kid, and I never could be, and that was something you couldn’t fix."

"Did the…" Jack waved a hand toward Charlie's head, "Did Shaboom tell you that?"

The boy smiled. "No, Sha’ban didn't. I figured that out for myself. And," he paused and looked down, deliberatly avoiding meeting the Colonel’s eyes. "Jack, I'm sorry about the name, about taking your son's name. At the time, I didn't understand what it meant, how much it would hurt you. I thought it would help you. Mother said you were hurting, and missing your son and I thought-- I thought I could be him."

It must have been the drugs the docs had pumped into him, because Jack knew he hadn't been able to keep the sadness off his face. There was quite probably even a tear rolling down his cheek. "I'm proud that you have it, Charlie. It's a good name."

"But it hurts you to say it."

He didn’t try to deny the truth of it. "Yes. But it's good, too."

"I'll try to live up to it, Jack. For your sake."

"I know you will, Charlie."

"I’ll see you soon," Charlie said, and his look told Jack that the boy was gone, replaced by a young man who knew the truth, or untruth, of such promises.

"Yup."

"Goodbye, Jack."

He didn’t say goodbye. Jack never did. He just silently watched as another child left him behind.

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