Chapter 14: The Other Side of the Coin
"I felt his emotions, George, as if I was there in person. How in the hell did we miss him? And Sam? That lowlife rat is gonna pay for this."
Hammond motioned for him to quiet down. His wife was still asleep; and it was a wonder she had not yet come to observe the commotion.
"Son, we'll know for sure when we get to that bridge. Do you know how?"
"The quantum mirror's destroyed, and he couldn't have come via the 'Gate." Jack paused briefly, and then asked. "Why attack the SGC of all places?"
"Better question is, Jack. Why did he frame you for espionage, using Russia as the instigator? What does he gain by siding with them, instead of coming to us? And how did he manage to kidnap you without revealing himself?"
"All I know is, that my wife believed him, and she . . ." He suddenly felt queasy. "Shit!" He stared down at the floor, clenching his belly as he fought against the rushing emotions.
"Ah, mighty fine questions you have there." Petrus chuckled nervously. "But this sounds far above my pay grade. I didn't sign up for anything like this."
"Oh, if I had a nickel." Jack quipped as he ignored the officer's terrified expression.
"You still have that retirement gift I gave you?" He asked of Hammond. He nodded his reply. "Great. I know a quick way we can sort this out." His eyes drifted to the ceiling.
George understood the gesture, but indicated at Petrus who squirmed slightly.
"We have to take him along. We can't just leave him here."
"Roger that. I'll have Major Davis deal with him, but first . . ." He motioned at the former General's sleeping attire. "Those aren't your parting clothes."
A grin quirked his lips, "Duly noted, General." Then turned and walked for the hallway.
"Wait!" Petrus protested, hand moving for his sidearm, but Jack quickly intercepted, grabbing his arms and forced them into a lock.
Seized the cuffs. "I'm sorry, Bengie." He slapped it around the young man's wrists. "But it's for your own good."
"You're insane, both of you." He struggled in the hold as the General plopped him down on a chair.
"Ironic, I should be stinking rich for that insult. Anyway, what you're about to witness, will make this seem meek in comparison."
"Can't believe I trusted you." He spat in return.
"Well, kid, in the mortal words of Benjamin Petrus; orders are orders, I have to obey the law."
"The law of spooks, yes." He exclaimed outraged.
"Now, now, be gentle. It's aliens actually. Whom, by the way, are not green. They're grey, actually"
"What?"
He glanced over his shoulder confused by the statement, when he noticed a vacant expression creasing the General's face. Another headache spell was coming on, and quickly felt the older man's grip fasten down on his shoulder.
Meanwhile, Jack heard the faint sound of the officer's whining, his world transforming into that of the bunker. A shadowy figure stood before him.
Ten Days Prior to SGC Attack
Jack O'Neill sensed the cold feeling of concrete creep over his knees and elbows, as he remained in the bent position. An ache spiked in his ribcage where the assailant had booted him, and then the breath lost upon impact, suddenly returned.
A familiar hand took a hold of his arm. Electrical currents rushed through his muscles, body convulsing with the excruciating agony, not knowing that his throat burned from a long, guttural scream.
The hand released and he curled into a ball, shaking violently.
"What you felt is a truth serum navigating its way through your body. It won't be long until it reaches the part of your brain where free choice reigns supreme."
O'Neill instantly sensed its effects in his emotions, forcing his mind to obey. It was confusing, infuriating, and finally, heart breaking, feelings he normally loathed.
"You'll see the truth, every word, every action, the real you in mere seconds."
The man laughed as he observed the struggle on his opponent's face. He leaned forward, hands on his knees, staring into O'Neill's dim eyes while he strained boosting himself to his knees.
"C'mon, Jack. Allow me the pleasure."
He grabbed him by the forearm, and a piercing scream echoed in the holding cell as another current released into his body.
"Nothing like that Iraqi prison, hey Jack?" He declared in mock pleasure.
"Nothing like it." O'Neill stuttered sarcastically, body quivering like a rattlesnake once more.
"I'm glad we agree."
"I won't give you what you want."
"Ha, don't need a truth serum to know that ol' boy. You are most stubborn, you are. But . . ."
The sentence dangled unfinished, as the man grabbed his opponent by the hair, pulled it backwards until he was fully on his knees. He groaned with the crude conduct, back muscles fraught with sharp, numbing pain.
". . . you're not as fit as you once were. Back in your black ops days, you ran circles around the other guys, sucha shame."
"Yeah, the stamina's normally the first to go. Adrenaline too, kinda on the slow pace, but it's getting there."
Deep amusement rattled in the man's chest. Then released O'Neill's hair with a jerk, and observed how he toppled onto his side. He paced in a circle around his subject like a lion, proud of his success.
"Glad your sense of humour survived."
"Whatever, I hope you don't."
"Now, now Jack, you can't speak to your doppelgänger like that, not if he holds your life in his hands."
"Oh, I hate replicas." He spat in return. "Are you a clone? From another universe maybe? The future!"
"So happy you asked." Jonathan declared delightful. "I've been dying to tell ya."
He knelt before his opponent, lifted his chin for a better view. "You see, that little serum slithering through your veins, once it wears off, your memory of our intriguing dual will cease to exist. Poof, gone, like it never happened."
He stood from his position.
"Call me Jonathan, okay. Jack sounds so . . . yesterday." A wince lined his countenance.
O'Neill scowled in the same disgusted manner.
"When did I become such a sick bastard?"
"Oh, I love this truthful side of you, flyboy, so much better than that stoic, way of the warrior crap."
"You're . . ."
". . . nuts, crazy, three fries short of a happy meal. Whacko!" Jonathan screamed in his opponent's face, anger flitting slightly before his expression changed into a mock sneer.
"I am you, Jack, you're nothing but a photocopy of my making. I created you; my puppet."
"What happened to you?"
Jonathan paced in a loop once more, observing him like a king a slave.
O'Neill propped himself on his knees, a tired sigh slipping through his lips. He felt drained physically, even more so, emotionally. The serum was taking its toll and he detested defeat, loathed surrender, but his doppelgänger knew him well, every weakness, and every thought. He would not be pacing about like a conceited, pompous General, if he had him beat.
"You're from the future, aren't you?" He asked voice barely audible.
"Yes, I am."
Jonathan smiled deceitfully, satisfied with the man's submission.
"I suppose that leather band attached to your wrist, holds more than just candour juice."
"It does. It's a beautiful, rare specimen SG1 discovered, well, soon to be discovered on P3X-234."
"Let me guess, ancient time device?" He nodded in lieu of a verbal reply. "Shocky thingie that erases one's memory, that's just great."
"Among other things, but that about sums it up."
O'Neill scowled, surprised with himself.
"You can stop with your condescending tone, bucko."
"Isn't that our signature move? To antagonize our opponent."
"Not if they have a bloody liquid forcing them to surrender." He yelled frustrated, Jonathan merely soaking in his displeasure. "Why did you come back? What the hell happened that you turned into this . . ." He motioned at him. ". . . this asshole."
His replica stopped in stride countenance as cold as ice.
O'Neill could see the anger building within. Sudden gooseflesh cascaded over his body, as he had awoken the beast; he could see it in his eyes, an injured bear on a rampage.
They stared at one another for a while before he finally understood. His own anger suddenly peaked.
"You lowlife rat! I would never risk the timeline because of a personal matter, even if I had lost everything."
He jettisoned his kneeling position, grabbing hold of Jonathan's collar and shoved him against the wall.
"How long? Huh? How long did you simmer in grief before you decided to ruin my life?"
A disturbing laugh echoed in the cell, his replica quavering with the chuckle. O'Neill stepped back, somewhat stunned by the reaction. It was unnatural, so unlike him.
"What the hell is wrong with you?" He asked confused.
Fear tore at his heart, suddenly feeling like a cornered rat. The man lifted his eye line, expression dark and contorted.
A malicious snarl lined his lips.
"I risked life and limb for those, who had ceremoniously sacrificed their lives for this pathetic excuse of a planet. It should have been me who died, not them . . . not her. Instead, I survived with a handful of bad injuries to show for my valour. The Russians took everything away from me!"
Jonathan's body shook with adrenaline, rage, and remorse, his opponent backing away in concern, until the wall forestalled the effort. He laughed, feeling the device replenish the strength drained by the outburst.
"They were so busy saving the galaxy that they failed to see the brewing battle between our nations. Russia took advantage, wiping America's big fat asset from existence, and with it, the most precious thing I ever had."
He moved forward now, slowly, his subject in clear view and shouted in blind rage.
"They killed my wife, my family, my friends. I had nothing left! I have every damn excuse to repay those Soviets bastards for my loss, to repay the SGC for my suffering. Every! Bloody hell! Reason!"
"What have you done?" He barely muttered as understanding dawned. "How far back did you go?"
Silence settled between them, his malicious smile growing gradually until it reached his eyes in dark wickedness.
"Oh shit no!" O'Neill exclaimed in realization.
"Oh yes!" He growled his approval. "I've been pulling the strings for years. The Russian's, the SGC, Homeworld, our family, all of them ignorant of their puppet master."
O'Neill stared on in disbelief, and suddenly overcome by distraught, his awareness spun sluggishly, mind mulling over the possibilities of a different life. Quickly cursed himself for neglecting Samantha, however, the thought of seeing his family again coiled around his emotions. He saw a fictional image of Charlie in college, Sara thrilled with his girlfriend.
Grief clung like a heavy smog around his heart, welling tears resulting with the emotion and he dropped to his knees, soul torn to shreds.
"You had the means to save Charlie and Sara, and you let them die?"
"Yes, yes." The words echoed in quick procession, the ravenous pleasure heard in their tone.
"I watched how the life drained from those murderers' eyes." His head leaned back, arms spread-eagle. "Oh, the sweet satisfaction! I had the privilege to avenge their deaths."
"You twisted, demented bastard!" O'Neill yelled in livid rage. "You could have saved them. Our lives could have been different."
A fraught cord snapped in Jonathan's mind, and his furious gaze levelled with his kneeling subject.
"No, no, no!" The shout boomed in spitting disagreement, O'Neill startling with the reprimand.
"You love Samantha. Samantha's the one you promised to protect, always. She's the one you married, to save yourself. She's the only person that understood my agony! Not Sara, not Charlie. Samantha!"
Jonathan's void gaze danced with bitter torment.
O'Neill felt sick to his stomach, instant nausea pushing bile to his throat. This man, someone that shared the same history, had turned into a lost, misguided fool. Quick abhorrence revealed on his face.
"I'm nothing like you!" He called out. "Nothing like you." He whispered heart broken.
"We'll see about that." Jonathan hissed under his breath, eyes alight with fire.
He came for O'Neill, taking hold of his throat, drew him to his feet, and then tightened the grip ever so slightly.
Jack felt his airway constrict, yet still managed a croak. "What did that thing do to you?" His eyes rested on the wristband.
"It's the fountain of youth, much better than that Goa'uld sarcophagus."
"It took your soul, you stupid son of a . . ." His last words slurred, faded as the man tightened his grip.
Tendrils unravelled from the device, O'Neill's eyes bulging in shock as they snaked towards his temples and connected. A low growl emitted from his lips, climbing in tone while excruciating pain rippled through his body.
He collapsed soon thereafter, like a sack of rocks into an inert heap.
Jonathan stared down at his subject's limp figure, expression arrogant.
"This is the last time I'll be seeing ya chap." He curtsied before concluding, "I bid you . . . a good night."
Jonathan spread his arms like a tenor accepting applause from admiring spectators.
"That's all folks; stay tuned for scenes from our next episode."
Laughter rattled in his chest as he directed his right hand towards the iron door.
"Open za door!" He instructed playfully, and then dramatically declared, "Onwards to wreak havoc, we simply must."
The guard detached the bolt from its place and swung the contraption open, his superior dipping a 'thank you' while he sung a tune.
"Memories; Memories; All your memories are mine. To inflict pain; to subdue doubt, to claim fame."
A deep cackle escaped through his lips, as he went down the next corridor.
"Adios, so long Jack, good luck finding your way outta here."
He sung the self-made tune once more, ending it theatrically, "Samantha; Samantha; I'm coming for you. Yes, quake with fear; your nightmare comes to life. Nowhere to run; you can't escape this man."
Present Day
"Jack."
His name came through barely audible, his mind stuck in the past. He groaned in response, willing his limbs to move.
"General O'Neill."
He jerked from the stupor and noticed his current situation, on a bed inside the Daedalus' infirmary. The Scottish doctor, Carson Beckett, shone a penlight in his eyes, declaring that he was fully lucid.
"He's awake, General Hammond."
"I'm retired Doctor. George will do." He replied in his Texan accent.
"Ay, I'll remember that for next time."
"Excuse me." Jack croaked. "What's going on?"
"I found you unconscious on my living room floor, son."
"What? Where's Petrus? Do you know what's going on with the SGC?" He tried to move, but a sluggish response in his muscles forestalled the effort.
"Davis is with him now, he's fine. Your duplicate placed preventive measures as a safeguard, we can't beam men down, nor can we beam people out."
"Communications are down, and the power's out, but according to the life sign's detector, base personnel are unharmed."
"Dr Beckett is it?" Jack queried with a scrutinizing eyebrow, wondering why a medical doctor was informing him of such matters and not Colonel Caldwell.
"Ay." He replied with a grateful smile.
"Well, I'm comforted." He said sardonically, Carson's smile fading with the insult. Jack ignored him, turning his gaze on Hammond.
"He's not a duplicate, George. He's the future me." He attempted to sit up, but then hesitated as pain flowed through his body.
"You better lay down lad, before you cause unnecessary damage to that brain of yours." Carson placed his hand on the General's chest to help him stay down, but he protested with an instruction.
"Test my blood. I received an injection of some kind during the abduction. I think the serum's still active."
"How do you know this, Jack?" Hammond asked while glimpsing the doctor as he followed the instruction.
"The blackout was a recall. I don't know the specifics, but I shouldn't have remembered the discussion."
"I don't understand."
He hissed as the needle pierced his flesh, observed how the blood filled the tube, and continued to watch the doctor as he vacated the room. Hammond helped him sit upright, his facial features showing lingering pain.
"I remembered the encounter . . . vividly. He had a time device stuck to his wrist, which injected a truth serum into my bloodstream, apparently, once it left my system; it erased the ordeal from memory. It also has the ability to replicate my memories. That's why he was successful with the Incursion."
Jack paused slightly, Hammond dipping his head in understanding.
"He's been pulling the strings for years, George. All for her; for Sam." A grimace laced his countenance. "Russia destroyed Homeworld, the SGC, everything we've worked hard to protect, gone just like that. He came back, did the same as they did, but without causalities, all to keep Sam from dying all over again."
"Doesn't make it right, Jack. You of all people should know how cruel it is to manipulate peoples' lives."
"Yeah, I know, I agree. The device had changed him into a deranged animal, took his soul for crying out loud!"
His face lit up with recognition as a piece of the puzzle suddenly made sense.
"I need to get down there."
He threw the covers off, throwing his legs over the side, when a dizzy spell occurred. He ignored it, yet before he could stand up, Hammond rested a hand on his shoulder.
"You know you can't."
"We can beam a team down outside of the radius, have them infiltrate via the emergency hatch and eliminate his defences. Better yet, send me with them."
"I can't permit you to breach the contract, General O'Neill." Hammond warned with urgency.
"Aren't we past that? That bastard's down there, he's the traitor, not me."
"The agreement was for you to stay away from the SGC, so that you couldn't be used as Russia's so-called Trojan horse."
"I can't sit back and watch my life's work be destroyed by a psychopath. I won't accept it, George. She's my wife. Not his! I will not let that rat protect my Sam!"
"The evidence to exonerate you is still down there. Moreover, we have no way of knowing what Russia's plan is beyond this point. We can't risk our plan not after everything SG1 did to protect you."
"Yes, we can. Beam Major Davis down to General Kuznetsov's snug, little office . . ."
Hammond shook his head, replying, "He's been missing for the past fourteen days, presumed dead."
"You gotta be kidding me, Bengie's theory was correct? You both were!" He called out as he remembered something. "What better way than to hide in plain sight."
Jack chuckled briefly. "Dang, smart kid. So then, Jonathan did have influence both here and there, goading and goading and goading over the years, until now, his supposed d-day."
"We still don't know what he planned for Russia?" Hammond said seemingly pondering. "If he has one, we need to warn them."
"Over my dead body." Jack declared disgusted. "They deserve what's coming."