Day Three

Daniel woke up. He had hardly slept at all.

By the time Galen had finally, after a long, tedious wait, declared that the room was safe again and removed the shield, it had been really late. Though time hardly existed inside these deadly walls and the constant glow of light from the ceiling, they had all been tired. Mitchell had suggested that they'd rest for a while, and everyone had agreed. Not that they could've done anything useful in a while anyway, with Max barely conscious and clearly feeling very sick. Galen had promised it would pass, given time.

Galen had also said that though he had done a shield spell, it didn't mean he would do anything else. A shield, he had explained, didn't use a lot of energy. Even though it had worked, it didn't mean that shooting fire and lighting at the walls would be a wise thing to do. They still needed to put the walls in order.

Daniel doubted if any of them had really been able to sleep. He had spent most of the time lying with his eyes closed and hoping that he could get rid of all the nasty things that kept going through his head.

This time, there was no one else he could blame, nothing he could say to defend himself--the mistake had been all his. His intuition about the Demotic hadn't been correct. In a way, there was symmetry. Daniel had been wrong and Max had got hurt. The previous time, it had been Max who'd been wrong about the Ogham, and Daniel had paid for it.

Daniel still couldn't be sure that he wasn't infected with some gruesome Ancient biological weapon, maybe even something that might spread to everyone else as well. He didn't know how many hours, or days, for that matter, he'd have to wait, until he could be sure he hadn't caught anything from the needles. Now, he felt hypersensitive and hypochondriac. Every time he felt anything even slightly off, he'd jump at it. Of course, he was feeling off most of the time, tired and sore, hungry and thirsty.

He still had that last drop of water at the bottom of his canteen. He was saving it. He didn't really know why. Somehow it was a comforting thought that he still had water left, though it wasn't much good when it just stayed in there. And he wasn't sure if he was feeling thirsty just because he knew they were out of water, or if it really was the first symptom of dehydration. Or the first symptom of some alien disease.

The thoughts had kept going around in circles all night. From the walls to the needles, and then to the thirst.

Daniel had only realized he'd fallen asleep when he'd noticed that the ceiling was no longer even and glowing, but a huge, decorated dome, like the inside of some baroque church. And then the Veraeda had opened, except that it had looked exactly like a stargate, with the vortex and the gently rippling surface when it was open. Jack had stepped out of it, carrying a whole pot of coffee and a box of donuts. And he had yelled at Galen, "You no-good wizard-wannabe, why haven't you gotten them out yet?"

Daniel opened his eyes to face the relentless smooth light from above. He got up, and noted that the Veraeda looked just as dull and gray as he had remembered. Jack definitely wasn't anywhere near to this place. Daniel wondered if he even knew something had happened to the current SG-1. They'd been out of contact with the SGC for two days already. Surely someone would've told Jack.

Jack would be right there, waiting in the gate room when SG-1 returned. If they returned.

Mitchell's start of the day speech was somewhat less inspired today than what it'd been last morning.

"Let's see. I'm not trying to be depressing, but we're out of food and water, the Veraeda"--he pronounced the word carefully--"is not working and there's nothing really useful on the tables. Basically, this means that aside from Jackson and Eilerson, who've got the hardest job of all, there really isn't much of anything we can do, unless you two can think of something we can do for you. I guess we've just got to try and come up with interesting ways to spend time."

Max was back on his feet again, though he still looked pale, and more than that, withdrawn and silent. But they'd have to keep thinking about the walls.

"I don't want to try it again, I don't want to guess anymore. Not before we've got something tangible on at least a few of those mystery walls. We've got six right and six to go. There's several hundred possible ways we could arrange those six, if we just go on guessing. We'll get killed long before we get through all the possible combinations. We've got to be able to read some of them, or recognize and accurately date the scripts, something. If we don't, then we're not going out," Max said bluntly. No sign of his earlier optimism, the belief that they could find the right order through logic and intuition.

"We can figure this out. We've got to. So, I was obviously wrong about the new Egyptian--it's got to be even newer than I thought. But if it's several thousands of years younger than the Demotic I know, I wouln't expect it to be recognizable anymore. I mean, the difference between hieroglyphic and demotic Egyptian is so great that it's impossible to see without a lot of studying."

"Yes, that's odd, isn't it?" Max replied absently. "I think I'm going to work on the Ogham some more. Last night, I had this idea that if it's actually contemporary to you, then it might not be in ancient Irish at all. Maybe it's in modern English. So, I'm going to try and decipher it as if it is. See if something comes out of it that way."

"And I'm going back to my demotic, for starters," Daniel stated, and each went to work on their chosen walls.

The symmetry was still there. They had both chosen the walls that they had been wrong about. Both were trying to fix their mistakes.

Daniel was pretty certain about the bits he had managed to translate so far. The parts he hadn't been able to translate before still escaped him. He spent hours staring at the wall. All he got from it was a headache. A pretty nasty one, too.

Mitchell appeared by his side and put something into his palm. He looked at it. Aspirin. He cast a puzzled glance at Mitchell.

"Figured you'd need it. My head's about to split, and I thought you're probably not feeling a whole lot better. First symptoms of dehydration, you know. Galen was friendly enough to let me know that you and I'd be facing it first, since we both lost some blood earlier, and he wasn't able to fix it completely."

Daniel had had the uncomfortable feeling that Galen was staring at him, had been staring at him ever since he'd gotten the needles out. Looking for signs of--something. Well, dehydration was bad, but at least it wasn't contagious.

"Now he's telling us," he said cynically.

"Yeah, that's what I thought too."

Mitchell stayed there for a while, but didn't say anything. Probably didn't want to ask how the translation was going, because he could guess it wasn't going well. Daniel was glad he didn't.

Daniel looked at the pill still on his palm. His mouth felt so dry that there was no way he could manage to dry swallow it. This was probably as good a moment as any to drink that last mouthful of water. He knew the headache wouldn't stay away for long, but maybe even a moment's relief would allow him to figure out something about the walls. He emptied his canteen and swallowed the aspirin.

He turned his gaze to the wall again, the symbols that carried no signs of Greek influence, the symbols that were all too close to demotic Egyptian letters. They were neatly written, much neater than than any demotic text Daniel had ever seen. Almost unnaturally neat. Each time the same letter was repeated, it was exactly the same, without even the slightest fluctuation typical to handwritten text. It was like--now that he thought of it--it probably wasn't handwritten at all. It was printed, or typed. In some universe, Egyptians had invited book printing, or who knew, maybe even typewriters, or computers. And perhaps that had caused the script to stay as it was for a long period of time.

The problem was, even though Daniel could offer such a plausible explanation to the writing, he was still no closer to dating it.

Mitchell had suggested strip poker, but everyone had declined, except for Teal'c, and since he knew he'd lose to Teal'c, they had settled for "Go Fish" instead.

Mitchell quickly found out that Galen could beat everyone every time, even Teal'c. As if he could see right through the cards. For all Mitchell knew, maybe he could. It really wasn't all that unexpected.

"Perhaps we should attempt a game that is not played with cards," Teal'c proposed.

"Truth or dare?" Mitchell tried.

"I think I shall take a break from all this playing," Galen said, and walked away, to poke at something on one of the tables.

They fell silent for a while. That hated silence again.

Almost out of nowhere, Eilerson's voice suddenly broke the oppressed quiet. "No! No! We're never going to solve this. We're dead. We're all dead. Thirst or traps, don't know which comes first! We can't possibly hope to understand the slightest bit of writing when we know nothing of it, nothing at all. No idea of context, no idea of the language--nothing! We're dead."

And then he was standing right in front of Galen, fisted hands in front of him, face red and twisted with anger. "And you! You damn techno-mage--now, when for once you could really be helpful--and what are you doing? Nothing! Just like the rest of them! Can't cast one single spell to get us out--you'll just let us all die-"

Galen's face stayed stern and cool, but he reached with his hand and grasped Eilerson's shirtfront. "Maximilian!" he boomed, and Eilerson fell silent. "You would have me risk a spell at the walls? You would choose a quick and certain death above the possibility of survival? I would gladly give that to you, but there are more of us here. The universe does not turn around you. You remember what happened when I came to contact with the Veraeda--"

Galen fell silent in mid-sentence, frowning. Without explaining, he turned his back to Eilerson and walked to the ice-device. As everyone else watched in silence, he ran his fingers along its surface, traced the silvery casing on one side, and finally knelt to place his hand on the ZPM, eyes closed in concentration.

The Veraeda flashed into life, the opaque surface became transparent and ice-like again. In a blink, it was gone, gray again. Galen had lifted his hand away.

"Maximilian, we're not going to die here. Not in this room, at least not in this universe. I cannot believe I never thought of this before. Though the Zero-Point Module may be broken, there is still a source of zero-point energy here that's available to us. Myself."

"Wait! You said you're not exactly compatible with Ancient technology--how can you be sure that you can power it up, instead of just causing some kind of a short circuit? Is this somehow different from doing something to the walls?" Carter asked.

Mitchell suddenly realized that Galen had already touched a wall without any consequences. No short circuit there either. Maybe it was the same thing. Or then, maybe it just had to do with what the walls were like. Maybe they weren't as sensitive to such conflict as the Veraeda. Once again, it wasn't like Galen was going to tell them if he knew it.

Galen didn't even give a straight answer to Carter's question. "This is entirely different. Because of what this device is like. It is..." he said, and shook his head. "No, you would not understand. Even if you would, I would not tell you."

"But--Galen, didn't you say that even if we could go through the Veraeda, we'd just find ourselves in another sealed Dodecagon-room?" Jackson joined in the conversation.

"Yes, that's what will happen. Still, it gives us hope. How many walls have you been able to identify here, for certain, without guessing?"

Jackson grimaced. Not many, Mitchell knew that. And then, Jackson's face lit up with something, an idea, and a hopeful one, if Mitchell could read it correctly.

"A new set of texts is generated every time something triggers the lockdown--so, we can just go through the Veraeda, and see what the texts are like in that universe. If we recognize more than here, then we've got a better chance of solving them. And if we don't, we can always go through it again..."

Even Eilerson was looking hopeful now. "That could work. It really could."

"Pack your things, people. We're taking a trip through the mother of all quantum mirrors," Mitchell declared.

Packing their things didn't take all that long. In a matter of minutes, the members of SG-1 were standing in front of the Veraeda with their packs. Eilerson and Galen hadn't had much of anything with them when they'd first accidentally come through the mirror.

"You know, Feiara mentioned in her diary that the Veraeda's capacity is limited," Daniel noted. "On the other hand, she was talking about the whole of the Duodecim going through it. Twelve people. There's only six of us."

"I'm not saying that this is safe. It is awfully risky for all of you. Also, I can't tell what kind of an effect powering the Veraeda will have on me," Galen warned.

Mitchell remembered Galen had been knocked out the last time, though he hadn't even touched the device himself, just contacted it through Eilerson. He really hoped this wouldn't turn out to be a one way trip for him.

"Now, I want each of you to place one hand on the device, and the person closest to me must give their other hand to me. I need to touch the ZPM in order to access the Veraeda's technology."

They lined up in front of the device, and Mitchell purposely placed himself nearest to Galen and put a hand on his shoulder.

"Go ahead, when you're ready," he told him.

The surface of the Veraeda turned into ice again. It felt like ice as well, perfectly smooth and slick. Mitchell had the oddest feeling that his hand was sliding on the surface, though he could see it wasn't moving. It was as if there was no friction at all between the surface and his palm. The feeling spread outwards from it, enveloping his entire body.

He was flowing, like water in a river. He was liquid. Liquid electricity, like he had thought when the Veraeda had opened and the odd wave of energy had hit them.

Then something forced him to stop. He was no longer flowing.

The liquid that he had become was freezing. It was so cold.

It seemed to last forever.

In an abrupt snap, the odd feelings disappeared.

Mitchell was standing in front of the Veraeda again, staring at a matted gray surface that felt coarse against his palm.