Makepeace exited the "bathroom" feeling a little self-conscious. Never in a million years would he have guessed that that particular item of artistic exotica was a toilet. Nor would he have been able to use it without detailed instructions from the hologram. A potty break in this city was a humiliating experience bar none. The fact that the rest of SG-3 were in the same boat made it somewhat more tolerable, though. Since everyone was fair game for the derogatory jokes and put-downs, no one was cracking any.

Makepeace harbored not the slightest doubt that the aliens who had once inhabited this planet had been completely and utterly non-human in body type.

He returned to the common room and sat on a relatively flat spot on the malformed "couch." His headache nagged at him. He closed his eyes and rubbed first his temples, then the base of his skull, wishing the unceasing pounding would go away. The massage helped a little, but what he wouldn't do for just one aspirin.

"Maybe you should lie down for a while, sir. Get some rest."

Makepeace looked up to see Johnson standing before him. He dropped his hands and straightened. "I'm fine."

"You got zapped pretty bad, you know."

Few things put Makepeace into an ornery mood faster than a mother hen. He made a heroic effort and resisted the urge to bite Johnson's head off. "It's just a headache, that's all," he said reasonably. "Nothing ominous."

"Sir—"

"I said I'm fine."

Johnson said nothing, but continued to hover, looking reproachful. Makepeace rolled his eyes. "Why don't you go pump our 'butler' for information." With luck and determination, perhaps they could tease something useful out of the alien contraption. It also served as a decent way to get Johnson off his back for a while.

"I dunno, sir. That thing's got some serious gender issues. It's kind of creepy."

"Everything on this planet is creepy. Just do it, will you?"

Johnson slanted him a look that was nine-tenths amusement and one-tenth insubordination. Before the lieutenant could open his mouth and possibly wedge his foot in it, the door to their suite slid open. Gold orbs blocked the entrance, denying the captives any chance of escape. Three spheres floated into the room in a perfect, isosceles triangle formation. At the triangle's center two of SG-3's rucksacks and a number of canteens hung suspended in thin air.

Eerily silent, the spheres dropped lower, allowed the supplies to settle on the floor, then rose again. They glided back to join their counterparts at the exit, and the door closed behind them.

Andrews reached the pile first. "Pretty good service around here," he quipped, as he picked up a canteen. He unscrewed the lid and sniffed the contents, then took a swig.

"Hey, you shouldn't be drinking that," Henderson protested. "It could be drugged, or poisoned, or something."

"Jesus, we're already prisoners. Vara can do anything it wants to us, even probe our brains, anytime it wants. It doesn't have to be sneaky. Besides, this is all we've got." Andrews took another drink, then wiped his mouth with his sleeve. "Tastes okay to me." He held the container out to Makepeace. "Here ya go, sir."

Makepeace gingerly accepted the canteen, hearing the contents slosh, and took an experimental drink. The water was warm, with the usual aftertaste it acquired from being stored too long in a canteen, but with his dry mouth and pounding headache he thought it absolutely delicious.

Andrews dumped out one of the rucks and started pawing through the contents. "Mostly MREs," he said. "And some of that camp food you snuck into our supplies, Colonel. At least now we won't starve in here."

"I did not sneak that stuff in. General Hammond approved all of it," Makepeace said with mock indignation. He took another drink, and asked, "Any aspirin in there?"

"Sorry, sir. Don't see any. It doesn't look like our first aid kits made it into this batch."

Henderson and Johnson both got down on the floor to sort out the supplies. Makepeace knew he should help, but he only watched. The lack of aspirin disappointed him more than he wanted to admit. His headache was killing him, and he could no longer lie to himself about it—it was getting worse. A lot worse. Maybe Johnson was right, maybe he should try to catch a nap. He drank again, then sat down on one of those hateful, misshapen lumps they laughingly called furniture. He tried to screw the lid back on, but the canteen slipped from his fingers and fell to the floor. Water spilled at his feet.

Johnson lifted his head and turned at the clatter. "Sir? You all right?"

Makepeace didn't answer. He stared at his hands. Both were shaking.

"Sir?" That from Andrews. "What's wrong?"

Makepeace felt warm liquid run from his nostrils onto his lip. He wiped his face with a trembling arm. His sleeve came away smeared with watery red fluid.

"Oh, my God." Henderson was leaning over him. "Sir, you'd better lie down."

Makepeace tore his gaze away from the abnormal looking blood and stared at the corporal. Despite his shock, he felt an irrational flash of irritation. What the hell was he supposed to lie down on? This joke masquerading as a sofa? He opened his mouth to make a cutting remark to that effect, but before he could get a word out a shaft of pain lanced through his skull. He gasped and clutched at his head, squeezing his eyes shut tight, as the spear that pierced his brain burst apart like an exploding skyrocket.

"Sir!"

He heard Henderson's shout but couldn't respond. An anguished groan escaped his lips even as his body started trembling uncontrollably. Fingers clenched rigidly in his hair, he slipped from the couch and landed on his knees on the floor.

Then he was staring up at the ceiling, twitching, unable to do more than gasp for breath. Henderson and Andrews were hanging over him, talking frantically to him and each other. Johnson was bellowing at the walls, the ceiling, the door, yelling demands into thin air.

Makepeace tried to comprehend what was happening, but a whirlwind of razor blades shredded his thoughts. The roaring in his ears obliterated all sound as his universe contracted to the blinding agony inside his skull. The world shattered into jagged black and red streaks, then dissolved into gray nothingness.

When he drifted back to awareness, he was resting on his back and yet somehow moving, a smooth, subtle sensation, as though he were floating along on a light breeze. He felt light-headed and a little queasy, and a strange lassitude permeated his body. It was too much effort to move or even open his eyes, so he just lay still, letting the lethargy wash over him.

He couldn't remember ever being so tired. His brain wasn't functioning too well, but it occurred to him that his reactions weren't normal for him. Perhaps he should be concerned. If only it weren't so hard to think. His mouth was dry; he swallowed, and tasted blood.

He knew that, at least, wasn't normal. He forced his eyes open. For a moment everything was a pale green blur, then his vision focused. Above him was a creamy jade ceiling, broken into sections by dark lines. It rolled by rapidly, the motion increasing his nausea, but verifying that he hadn't been imagining his movement.

He lifted his head and saw gold spheres all around him. They must be carrying him, like they had somehow carried his team's supplies. The effort of holding his head up exhausted him, and he dropped it back again, closing his eyes. Vaguely, he wondered where the spheres were taking him.

The sense of motion ceased. He rallied what he could of his wandering mind and managed to convince his eyelids to open again. Harsh light stabbed his eyes, making him wince and squint. He rolled his head from left to right. He was in a room enclosed by glossy, night-black walls. Directly overhead, embedded in the ceiling, was an enormous, oval-shaped dome of clear crystal. All around him loomed gleaming chrome objects like weird, metal trees and abstract sculptures, all sprinkled with a myriad of tiny colored lights that twinkled like stars. The spheres were gone, and he wondered what was supporting him. Whatever it was, it felt warm and cushioned.

As a musical humming filled the air, an iridescent aurora danced over the crystal's cabochon surface. Makepeace watched, almost hypnotized by the coruscation of pastel colors. Soft chimes joined in, adding their own gentle melody. The aurora pulsed in time to the slow rhythm of a bass so deep it rumbled in Makepeace's chest.

Then whirring and buzzing noises broke his trance. Something clanked. He caught a flash of movement out of the corner of his eye. Makepeace turned his head, and panicked. No longer static art, the trees and sculptures were moving, drawing in closer, surrounding him. Branches and metallic arms became malevolent claws, the glittering lights transformed into demonic eyes.

The nightmare escalated. A machine extended a blunt, glowing probe to his face, and he jerked his head away. Other machines moved in, wielding incomprehensible devices. Raw, animal fear flooded him as something cold brushed his skin.

Above, the crystal flashed in a vivid kaleidoscope of whirling, psychedelic patterns. A beam of pure, white light burst from its center and struck Makepeace full in the face. Something deep inside him gibbered in terror, remembering the last time such a light ray had touched him, but now there was no pain. Instead, his muscles relaxed, his mind lulled. His field of vision narrowed, until he saw only the hypnotic scintillation of colors. A cozy warmth suffused him.

His sight dimmed; the horror faded. Oblivion beckoned, and he fell willingly into its embrace, accepting the escape it offered.