VII

Hawkins, whoever he was, palmed the two of them off on his pair of heavies while he went to 'deal with something'. Jamie suspected that might be a ploy to press home that their presence was insignificant. He really didn't need any convincing. While Jon was as cool as you could get without being pronounced dead, he was frightened half out of his mind. He didn't need any experience with top secret projects to know that these were the kind of men who would think nothing of killing off a pair of inconvenient sixteen-year-olds - and probably wouldn't get caught for it, either.

"In." The taller of the two thugs curtly gestured them toward a doorway with a card and keypad controlled lock. Jamie hurried to obey the order, but Jon hung back and held his ground.

"You know, you boys really need to work on your repartee," he said, screwing up his face. "That monosyllabic thing... don't get me wrong, it's a classic, but the world expects a little more these days. A little back and forth, a little banter - people want to feel their thugs are engaged with the job, it's not just another act of mindless violence to them."

"In," the man repeated, with no change in inflection.

Jon gave him a smirky grin. "Of course, you're a man who knows where his strengths lie, doesn't mind the typecasting... I can respect that-"

The second thug lashed out with a sharp kick that caught Jon in the back of the legs and caused him to stumble.

"In," his partner repeated implacably.

"Okay, I'm going, I'm going." He sauntered in after Jamie and the door slid shut behind them.

Jamie sank down to the floor with shaky legs while Jon prowled the confines of their cell, examining it. Jamie didn't see what there was to look at. Whatever the room had been intended for, it was empty now. There were no convenient vents, sharp or heavy objects, or even any windows besides the glass pane in the door. Which he didn't doubt was reinforced glass.

Jon too sat down, hugging his knees in a posture that managed to look both relaxed and fully alert. He placed himself between Jamie and the door, which Jamie didn't think was a coincidence.

"So - what now?" he asked tentatively, when he thought he could trust his voice not to shake too much.

"We wait," Jon said calmly, resting his head back against the wall. "Hawkins still wants me to work this gadget for him. He's not dumb enough to think he can get anything out of me by threatening to hurt you, so hang tough, okay? Nothing to worry about."

Jamie didn't really think he could believe the words, but the delivery was still somehow reassuring. He sat back, and tried to concentrate on breathing slowly and emphatically not freaking out.

There wasn't much to look at besides Jon, his own shoes, and the elbow of one of the guards just beyond the door. Even so, it took him some time to notice that Jon had started to shiver. He didn't think it was from nerves, and the temperature in their makeshift cell was fine.

"Jon?" No response. "Jon?"

Jamie crawled forward - some stupid instinct telling him to stay on the floor so if the guards looked in, they wouldn't think he was trying anything - and touched Jon's shoulder. Jon slumped sideways, his head lolling. He would have looked unconscious if not for the fact that his eyes were partway open, rolled so far back that only the thinnest sliver of brown still showed.

It was creepy as hell, and Jamie was deathly afraid he was having some kind of seizure. "Jon!" A more violent shake didn't wake him, and Jamie laid him down on the floor on his back, pulling off his own jacket to use as padding under his head. Jon's breathing sounded irregular, but as Jamie moved in closer to try and take a pulse, he realised that the gasps were actually words.

"Corp... non ficere... commutatis inver..."

It might have been gibberish, but it seemed like language gibberish, and that was somehow even more disturbing than the idea of him speaking in tongues. Maybe Jon hadn't been born in the States, maybe that was the language of his home country he was speaking - and maybe he was telling all the secrets Hawkins wanted to hear. What if that football thing had, had drugged or brainwashed him into giving things away?

Jamie crouched beside him, totally helpless. His instinct was to yell for somebody to help them, but those guys weren't exactly friendly, and what if giving away Jon's condition played right into their hands? Should he risk it? What if it was only nonsense words Jon was babbling, and every second Jamie delayed was one second closer to permanent brain damage? Hawkins wanted Jon alive, surely he'd give him medical attention, surely...

Jamie knelt by his friend's side and prayed for him to come out of it quickly, before any irrevocable decision had to be made.


"Sir?"

Jack looked up from his paperwork, grateful for the interruption. Concentrating on anything, let alone something as mind-bogglingly boring as supply requisition forms, was next to impossible when SG-1 was out in the field. They were under Jacob's wing, which meant something - better him than any other Tok'ra, that was for damn sure - but going into the heart of Baal's territory, he'd have been happier if they'd taken SG-3 and 5, a handful of nukes, and an Asgard buddy to beam them out if things got hairy.

Besides, his kids had a gift for finding trouble wherever he sent them. He worried when they were out collecting soil samples on planets of no tactical value. He worried when they went to the mall. A Jaffa, a naquadah-enhanced astrophysicist and an archaeologist with a penchant for getting himself kidnapped were no combination to be let loose on an unsuspecting outside world.

"Hey, Siler. What's up?" He liked Siler. It was hard not to. Siler was That Guy; the one who was there before everybody else arrived, still there when everyone else left, and did mysterious things with wrenches that stopped the place falling apart around their ears. Being The Man had given Jack a whole new appreciation for That Guy. He'd have a whole lot less grey hair if he was allowed to run a mountain full of them.

"I was able to deconstruct that program Colonel Carter passed on to me and track it back to the source before the code erased itself."

"Yeah?" Jack pretended he knew what that was about. He really should try reading his memos some time.

"Yes, sir. It's passing information to a company called Bradleigh Biotech, located not far from the high school," Siler reported.

And now he was up to speed. Jack raised an eyebrow. "Some biotech company's monitoring my clone?"

"It certainly looks like it, sir. The final destination was heavily disguised, but I'm confident we have the address accurately pinpointed." When Siler said he was confident, you didn't quibble.

"Any chance they know you were...?" Jack debated the odds of getting his computer hacking lingo correct, and went with a little mime of typing instead.

"I don't think so, sir, but I can't say for sure."

"Thank you, Siler." He swung himself out of his chair, and headed straight for Reynolds' office.

"Sir!" The Colonel jumped up smartly. Jack wheeled around and started a walk and talk in the direction of the armoury.

"I need you to put a team together. We've got a local biotech company sniffing around my clone - I want to know what they've got, and what they think they can get."

"Yes, sir." Reynolds hesitated, and Jack recognised the expression well. The 'Oh, gawd, the old man wants to get out in the field again' look. He imagined he'd have cultivated one of his own if General Hammond had made a habit of inviting himself along on field operations, but dammit, with him it was different.

It should be different. Hell, he was an old man with bad knees, but he'd been that most of his years as a Colonel, and it hadn't slowed him down. Much. He'd known when he took the job that it came with a boatload of ugly responsibilities, but he hadn't counted on the invisible straightjacket of command that came with being the General. He'd built a career out of always, always putting his team ahead of himself, and now it was his responsibility not to. A General had to survive to be there for all his men, not just the first one he had a chance to take a bullet for.

Generals didn't stay out of the field because they were old, or unfit, or tired of taking risks. They stayed out because their duty placed them under an obligation to be the last man standing, and you couldn't be a good man and do that in an arena where other people were dying.

Still, you had to keep your hand in somehow. And paying a visit to a local biotech company was not technically action, was it? Nobody could object to the General going along on what would surely amount to a lot of searching through laboratories and retrieving computer files. Of such decisions was Generalling made.

Or something like that.

Reynolds made a spirited attempt to head him off, nonetheless. "I'll get right on it, General. I'll head the team myself."

"Not so fast, Reynolds. If mini-me's involved in this, you're gonna need somebody who knows how he thinks." Jack gave his best 'what can you do?' shrug.

There was a brief hesitation, but Reynolds had the sense to know when he was beaten. "Yes, sir," he said, and slunk away.


Jon sat clutching his head, and Jamie regarded him worriedly. He'd barely said two words since he'd come out of his trance, and he was still shaking and sweating. Whatever was wrong with him, it was getting worse.

Jamie was sure that the glowing football device had caused this, though he couldn't guess how. Had Hawkins and his associates planted it in Jon's apartment? Why hadn't Jon gotten rid of it? Or had it sent him into the same kind of fit every time he touched it?

If it did, why hadn't it done the same to Jamie? And what did it mean that Jon was still showing the effects now he was outside of the device's influence? There were so many questions, but he was afraid of asking them in case the cell was bugged.

He let out a shaky little huff, not quite laughter. How the hell had he got himself into a situation where he was worrying about armed thugs and listening devices?

The electronic lock disengaged, and Jon immediately went into an alert crouch, the signs of his discomfort dropping away like a shed cloak. In the movies, Jamie reflected, they would have made a plan that involved one of them acting as a distraction while the other hid beside the door to jump the guards.

This not being the movies, he stayed right where he was, sitting on his ass, and tried to look non-threatening.

Thug number one - or possibly two, he'd forgotten his previous numbering system - roughly jerked Jon to his feet. Jamie, remembering the two occasions he'd unwisely grabbed hold of Jon, wasn't sure if his limp non-reaction was a sign of incredible self-control... or that Jon was getting sicker by the moment.

He never got a chance to find out, either, because the two thugs hauled Jon away without a word of explanation. The door sealed behind them, and Jamie was left with nothing to do but sit back and wait.


The 'skylight' had begun to darken, roughly in synch with John's internal clock pointing to night. It was tough to pick up the rhythm of alien planets, but it seemed that not only had the Ancients had some bizarre preference for gate sites that resembled British Columbia, they liked a pretty regular day cycle too. Most of the planets they'd visited so far had a rotation period less than half a day out from that of Earth. This one ran long - he guessed thirty, thirty-two hours - so the odds were they'd been down here longer than it seemed they had.

There hadn't been any noise from above since they'd settled in to the shelter - which was a bitch, because that meant there was no way of telling whether there was simply no activity, or if the chamber was sound-proofed. He would have put McKay on finding that out hours ago, but...

McKay did not look good.

In fact, not to put too fine a point on it, McKay looked like crap. He was pale and sweating, and still giving that dry, squeaky little cough. John no longer took much comfort in the fact that it didn't seem to be accompanied by a chest infection. Even an irritation in the throat could be debilitating if it wouldn't let up, and at points McKay had been doubled over, coughing helplessly until tears came to his eyes. There was no way he was in any shape to run if the Wraith were hanging around.

Which meant John was left with that lovely fun part of his job responsibilities, making a Command Decision. Stay, where they'd be safer but not achieving anything, and hope McKay's condition didn't worsen; or go, hoping the Wraith would have followed their usual procedure and bugged out pretty quick after snatching up some locals, 'cause if they hadn't they were screwed.

Another cough from McKay decided him. If he was getting worse, sitting around on their asses in a bunker nobody else knew about was not gonna help him any... and even though it tasted fresh enough, there was a chance the trapped air down here was doing him no favours. Better to be on the move.

"Okay, everybody, we're moving out." He palmed a likely looking panel and was rewarded by the roof of the bunker sliding open. He waited, weapon raised, long enough to ascertain no one was about to jump them, then climbed out. So far, so quiet.

Ford fell into step beside him as they made their way through the undergrowth, Teyla watching their six and, without needing to be asked to, keeping an eye on McKay.

"We need to get the doc back to Atlantis, Major," Ford said. John nodded.

"Yeah. But he's not gonna be happy if we leave without those crystals."

"Think we can get them?" Ford asked.

John tilted his head back in the direction of the shelter. "I'm thinking we've got something new to bargain with." The location of a handy hiding place undetectable by the Wraith had to be worth a couple of power crystals - especially when the locals couldn't use them as anything more than museum pieces.

They both went onto higher alert at the sound of screams in the distance. John signalled the others to stay back and cautiously led the approach. As the trees began to thin out, he flattened himself against the trunk of one and peered around it.

They'd crept up on... one hell of a party.

The screams came from a pack of kids who were chasing each other back and forth. The adults were laughing, dancing, and generally behaving as if they hadn't been running for their lives a matter of hours ago.

John mentally cycled through possible hand signals to send his team, gave up, and gave them a big pantomime shrug instead. He stepped out from the cover of the treeline.

A skinny boy of about eleven - one of the kids Ford had befriended, he thought - waved and grinned at him.

"Teo Sheppard! Welcome! Join the celebration."

John eyed the partying Iaeronans. "Ah, so this is a 'the Wraith have bugged out' shindig?" he surmised, beginning to relax.

"Yes! Eleven people were taken," the boy said cheerfully.

The relaxation process abruptly shifted into reverse. "And that's... a reason to celebrate, huh?"

The kid gave him a dazzling smile. "Oh yes, Teo Sheppard. The hunters brought back many more than eleven hraka - it is a very good omen. When the hunt exceeds the cull, we can know our people will grow prosperous and our Cycle is in ascension."

He skipped off, apparently completely untroubled by the abduction of eleven of his people for a gruesome and untimely death.

John let his diplomatic smile slide back into the grimace it wanted to be.

Aliens. Go figure.


There was some sort of commotion going on in another part of the building.

Jamie's prison cell was not quite soundproof, but it had a definite muffling effect. He edged closer to the door, and could hear that the guards were conversing, though he couldn't pick out the words. From the tone and the body language, he could guess they were arguing about whether or not to leave their posts.

A moment later there was a strange, vaguely electronic noise, and a burst of blue-white lightning enveloped the right-hand guard. Before his partner could react, he was hit by an identical pulse.

The cell door slid open.

Jon appeared in the doorway, clutching a... well, from the way he held it, it appeared to be a gun of some kind, but the design was way beyond weird. It was a vaguely snake-like coil of metal, seemingly the wrong shape to include any ordinary firing mechanism.

"What's that?" Jamie demanded, scrambling to his feet.

"Top of the range highly classified military stun gun. You never saw it." Jon headed out of the cell at a jog, gesturing for Jamie to follow.

"They're not dead?" he asked. As he did, he spotted a pair of boots sticking out of a side passage further up. Jon grabbed hold of his chin and physically turned his head away.

"That guy is. Don't look."

"You killed a guy?" he blurted, horrified.

"Not me. The base is under attack."

"Who by?" Jon didn't seem, on the surface, to be moving that fast, but it was deceptively difficult to keep up. He paused at every junction, smoothly flattening himself against the wall and scanning all directions before moving on.

"Possibly some friends of ours." Jon grimaced. "Possibly not. Let's not stick around to find out, huh?"

They reached a door that opened onto the outside world. Jon kicked it open, looked around, and then looked up. "Aw, crap," he said, with feeling.

"What?"

"Don't ask. Just- run." Jon punctuated his words with a strong shove. Jamie took off running across the parking lot without further prompting, headed for the bushes at the other side. It was close to full dark by now; they must have been in that cell for hours.

In an incredible moment of adrenaline-fuelled stupidity, Jamie actually took the first sharp bang for a car backfiring. It wasn't until the second shot whizzed past his head that he realised someone was on top of the building shooting at them.

And not with one of Jon's crazy sci-fi stun guns, either.

Jamie didn't clearly remember the details of the frantic scramble across the lot. He just found himself, a few moments later, crouched down behind a van with Jon beside him.

"Stay put," Jon advised him, and did something to the passenger door. A second later he had it open, and crawled across the seats to get under the steering wheel. There was some rustling, a few grunts and some muffled swearing, and then the engine roared into life.

"Carter, I owe you," Jon said aloud to no one in particular, and gestured for Jamie to get in. "Come on. Sorry about your bike, but we can't risk going back for it. And get buckled up, I might have to do some dangerous driving."

Jamie wasn't sure if they were pursued or not; he stayed slumped down in his seat while Jon drove like a maniac, screeching through turns and breaking not just speed limits but possibly several laws of physics.

A maniac, but one who was in control of his vehicle. Jamie wasn't the least bit surprised that Jon could drive like a professional stuntman. Compared to the other talents he'd manifested this week, it was practically mundane.

"You okay?" Jon spared him a quick sideways glance in the mirror.

"I guess," he said shakily, pressing a hand to his chest. He had a sharp pain from the effort of running, and sweat was trickling down his stomach.

Or not. He held his hand up to catch the glow of the streetlights, and studied the dark liquid staining his fingers for a few surprisingly calm moments.

"Uh, Jon?" he said slowly. "Uh, sorry to interrupt, but... I think I might have been shot."