Major Carter had always embraced the concept of getting right back on the horse after falling off. Her father had taught her to confront her misgivings, her fears, and a career in the Air Force had reinforced that policy of owing up to uncertainty without hesitation. Even so, as she stood at the bottom of the ramp leading up to the stargate she couldn't still the anxious butterflies in her stomach that had not troubled her composure since her first trip through the gate. She was, privately, scared out of her mind.

"Major?" a female voice ventured carefully as the fifth chevron locked.

Major Carter blinked out of her petrified thoughts to look over at Captain Rawlins, who stood at her side in full field gear, P-90 at the ready across her stomach. The woman was watching her with sympathy in her warm gaze, sadness still never far behind for the teammates she'd lost. For a second Sam wanted to smile and quip 'first command jitters,' to establish a bond to one of the few other women on the base, gain some measure of friendship, but Sam had to settle for only a nod and professional, "As you were, Captain." Sam was commander of SG-1 and a great deal of command was appearance, how her team saw her. She couldn't admit to butterflies in front of her team, not when they had to be able to place faith in her decisions in the heat of battle. She had to come off as unflappable.

Captain Rawlins nodded and turned to watch the sixth chevron engage, saying faintly as it glowed orange, "I'm a little scared to go through again, ma'am."

Sam was relieved she wasn't the only one, and even more grateful to General Hammond for making the new SG-1's first mission out a standard survey... she'd like to know she could handle watching Daniel study rocks before she had to lead anyone into a fire fight.

"Gotta get back on the horse, Captain."

"Yes, ma'am."

From the control room: "Chevron seven locked."

The blue eruption of the establishing event horizon rushed into the embarkation room like a tidal wave then retreated, leaving at its source a shimmering, bright blue liquid light.

"SG-1, you have a go," General Hammond's voice came over the intercom.

Taking a steadying breath, Sam hoped her voice didn't crack, "All right, people, move out."

Rawlins took the first step toward the event horizon, grim face set in determination, and Sam was already proud of her. In time she might belong with this new SG-1; she was definitely made of stern enough stuff.

Teal'c went after Rawlins, then Sam felt Daniel at her side and looked over at him. He was watching her, blue eyes compassionate to everything Sam was feeling, even the things to which she would never admit. She was hopeless to hide anything from him, standing before him feeling naked, and wondered if Colonel O'Neill had ever stood like this, a rock to everyone else but transparent as glass to Daniel.

The thought of Colonel O'Neill rushed at her, a radiating ache that, nearly a month after his death, was still crippling if she gave in to its force. For that very reason she couldn't give in, holding her defenses at all costs.

"You okay, Sam?" Daniel asked softly and reached out to touch her arm.

Starting them up the ramp, Sam clasped her hand on Daniel's shoulder and ferried him forward, "Fine. Let's go... we still have a job to do."

If Daniel noticed the forced bravado in her voice he didn't call her out on it. He only gave her a thin, friendly smile, consenting without a word of resistance to her slide into command of SG-1. Daniel stepped through the wormhole event horizon before her. It left Sam one last second to silently hope to god she didn't screw up before following her team out of the SGC and to a distant point in the galaxy.

"I will have you ripped apart for this betrayal!"

They were bold words from a helpless man. Montu was crumpled on the floor, splayed on his knees, left arm cradled to his chest as blood stained his skin and clothes. Where moments ago he had possessed a ribbon device and personal body shield, indeed where there had been a hand, was now a bloody stump, spilling forth the precious blood of the hapless Goa'uld host. His eyes flashed white as still, even near defeat, he challenged his attacker.

Aetom lowered the staff weapon that had dashed the hand from the Goa'uld, his own eyes glowing as he glared down at Montu's enfeebled form. Jack was looming in his mind like a thunderstorm, an urging force, a restless spectator, chanting without words for Montu's death.

Aetom took a step closer, chin upturned, "You are defeated, Montu. You have sent to death those who might have fought for you, locked within your walls your greatest enemy, the Tok'ra fiend you tried so hard to find. I stand before you, Montu, your fatal mistake."

Montu snarled and blood dripped to the floor between his legs, "I was not fool enough to send away all but you, Tok'ra filth! Advisors still fill these halls, you will be destroyed for this!"

Aetom allowed a very self-satisfied smirk, "Your advisors lay dead, Montu, poisoned for their foolery to think one of their own could be trusted, drunk from the cup of the Tok'ra resistance. You are alone, Montu, as you will die."

Montu tried once, out of sheer force of will and by drawing on fury, to rise to his feet. Jack watched through his own eyes, unable to contain his anger, his blood-lust, his determination that Montu die now... right now.

Aetom purposefully lifted his left hand, his eyes flashed, and Jack could feel something within him building up force, igniting each thought with fire. In an instant if felt as though the Tok'ra wrapped around his brain stem and spinal cord had become an electric eel, wriggling and coiling like lightening. It burned white with fury, murderous rage, and when it seemed the wildfire would consume his sanity there was an outlet. The ribbon device leapt to life, angry tendrils reaching toward Montu.

The Goa'uld gasped, gargling as he fought to no avail, trapped, fated at that second.

Jack could have turned himself into liquid energy just to channel himself through his own hand. The fury coursed through his body, a siren's call in the center of his palm heralding all the anger, expelling it from his own body only to focus it on Montu. At first there was only the release of uncontrollable anger, catharsis, then there were sensations crawling their way back through the device. Jack embraced them, thrilled by them. He could feel the victim's fear, the pain, the heat of the Goa'uld within being cooked alive. Aetom was oblivious to Jack for the first time since they were blended, focused with dogged determination on Montu's demise. For the first time in his life, Jack would have described himself as a cheerleader, screaming from the sidelines and shaking his pom poms.

Jack bathed in Aetom's dark joy in at last, after so long, seeing Montu broken and near death before him. Boiling... Montu was writhing in fire-born agony, moments from death... Jack could taste it, the sweetest flavor, an intoxicating elixir. He watched his own hands do this, dispense death upon a Goa'uld with nothing more than will and the wave of his hand, and he liked it.

Montu gave one last strangled scream then collapsed to the floor.

The river of fury that Jack had ridden with alacrity suddenly vanished, the rapids of vengeance at once bone dry. Order returned, coolness amidst the pockets of white fire. Jack blinked, unsteady at the sudden shift, part of his mind looking for the wild rivers of fire, longing to ride them forever.

–Colonel O'Neill,– a tired voice pulled at him, dragging him away from the futile search, –it is done.–

Jack looked down at the motionless form of Montu, disappointed for a fleeting moment that it was gone so soon, but quickly common sense took hold. 'What about that sarcophagus thing? Can't they revive him?'

Aetom was slow to answer. He lowered his left hand and reached for the lavish folds of his shirt, –Not once he has been ripped from his host,– and his hands came away brandishing a blade. Aetom looked at the sharp edge, unmoving.

Jack did not understand the sudden reluctance, unwillingness, that brushed through his thoughts, their source Aetom. He pressed forward for control and took the knife from Aetom without the weapon ever really changing hand. Aetom deferred to Jack, passed off command of their single body, and the colonel basked in the relief that always came when he could move his hands as he chose, the little spark of elation that he was still himself.

Jack moved quickly to the fallen Goa'uld's side. He rolled the body on to its stomach and without batting an eyelash plunged the dagger into the back of the host's neck. There was very little blood, even less resistance, and when Jack saw the gray-white hint of the symbiote he reached in with his bare hands, took hold, and pulled. With a fast tug the snake came loose, slipping from the gash in the host's neck and lying limp in Jack's grip. The jaws of the finned serpent were pink and gray with bits of human brain tissue, the long body slick with red blood that welled between Jack's fingers.

There was a transient urge to puke, and this time it wasn't from Jack.

The colonel set the dead Goa'uld on the floor, reclaimed the knife and quickly sawed through the parasite's neck. When it came free he picked it up and tossed the severed head against the far wall and finally stood, looking down at his stained hands. He waited for a psychotic whisper in his ear, direction, but there was a dead silence.

'Aetom?'

Jack felt a disquieted stirring in his thoughts, reluctance, then, –We must flee, O'Neill. Montu's Jaffa will not be gone long; we must not be found here.–

Tucking the knife back into his clothes, Jack stepped over the corpse and moved toward the door, on his way casting a glance down at his left hand. The ribbon device called to him, a tool of alluring power, and he flexed his fingers, watching the gold catch the light, and allowed a small smile.