XXI

It was clear even to Radek's untrained eye that Jon's condition had worsened. He had slipped into unconsciousness again, tossing and turning as if beset with fever dreams. The Ancient diagnostic devices they had meant that Carson's medical exam was less hands-on than its equivalent back on Earth, but the boy still failed to wake even when the doctor drew a sample of blood.

"How is he?" Radek asked. Carson sighed.

"Truth be told? I haven't a bloody clue. I've never seen anything like it." He paused to consider. "I've seen a few things just as strange, mind, but never anything like it. His brain activity's fluctuating wildly. He's using maybe thirty, forty percent more of his brain than a normal human being, but it's erratic. Parts are switching on and off like a set of Christmas tree lights."

"What could cause such a reaction?" Radek peered at the display on the handheld scanner. The readings themselves meant little to him, but he could see that they jumped and flickered.

"Brain surgery, maybe?" Carson shook his head. "Whatever's going on, it's affecting the underlying physical structure of the brain, but it's happening at such a microscopic level even the Ancient scanners can't pick it up. Short of doing a brain biopsy there's no way I can even track it, let alone find any way to stop it. And frankly I'm not confident enough of finding any solution to justify putting him through that. With that kind of unpredictable brain activity surgery could be disastrous."

Radek thought of his own latest project. "The scanning room that we discovered might allow for a more detailed study." After all, why would the Ancients need to build something the size of an MRI when they could fit the functionality of one into something no bigger than a PDA? "Unfortunately, I have been unable to configure it for safe use on organic materials. The documentation is too vast to sort through easily."

A faint throat-clearing alerted them to a new arrival. "Actually, I might be able to help with that," Doctor Jackson said.

Within the cell, time passed slowly.

Teyla had already ascertained that there was no means of escape - not that she had expected otherwise. The Ancestors' methods of construction far surpassed even the most secure of buildings elsewhere in the galaxy. While she had the greatest respect for both of her companions, she could not help but wish for the presence of Major Sheppard and Doctor McKay. They would doubtless have some wild yet oddly compelling plan for escape, or at the least have made their captivity more entertaining.

"Tell me more of these Goa'uld," she requested, articulating the strange name carefully. "They originate in your home galaxy?"

"Unfortunately," said Ford, with a bitter twist to the words that was foreign to his usual nature.

"The Goa'uld controlled a large number of worlds in our galaxy until recently," Doctor Weir elaborated. "They masqueraded as gods and enslaved the local peoples, picking and choosing hosts and putting the rest to work. Our people first encountered them nine years ago when we activated our Stargate, and we've been at war with them ever since. Most of the System Lords have fallen, but some are still hanging on - and Baal is just about the worst of them."

Teyla had worked out how long an Earth year was... eventually. It amused her - at those times when she was not irritable enough for it to frustrate her - how even the most diplomatic and thoughtful of the Earth people remained hopelessly mired in their own references. As a trader, she had learned early on to adapt her speech so that the people of many planets would comprehend. It had served her well even with a culture as strange as that of Atlantis's new residents. But although the people of Earth had many great technologies and even more impressive knowledge, they were still in many ways a very young race.

An impulsive one, most definitely. "You chose to venture forth to another galaxy while still fighting such an enemy in your own?" she asked incredulously. If they had sought to bring back allies and technology, yes, that she could easily understand, but they had sent away the best and the brightest of their people with little expectation that they would return.

Such optimism would have once been incomprehensible to her. And that, perhaps, was why a young race could succeed where many much older and wiser had failed.

"Well, actually, the Goa'uld haven't been our biggest enemy in the last few years," Ford mused. "After we took out Apophis and Sokar and Cronus and convinced the Jaffa to rise up and overthrow their masters, we were really more worried about the Replicators - nasty little metal bugs that eat everything - and then there was Anubis... okay, he was a Goa'uld, but he was a half-Ascended Goa'uld, and he had this army of indestructible mutant super-soldiers..." He perhaps saw the look that was surely forming on her face. "We like to think big," he said, with a shrug.

"So I have observed," Teyla noted wryly.

Perhaps they should not give up hope of a rescue just yet.

The cell door opened on the unspoken cue, but it was not McKay or Major Sheppard. It was one of the Goa'uld: the young woman. Teyla was frustrated to know that her ability to assess a warrior's physique at a glance was no use to her here. The slim, soft-bodied scholar she saw was only the outer skin to something that did not require muscle or training for its strength and speed.

The illusion further shattered when the woman opened her mouth. "Doctor Weir. You will kneel before your gods, and tell them of their new domain," said the harsh, grating voice of the parasite.

Their interrogations were to begin.

The only thing Jack O'Neill hated more than a Goa'uld was a Goa'uld wearing the face of someone he knew.

He knew Lieutenant Colonel Ben Casey. Hell, he'd hand-picked the man himself; General Hammond had put Jack to the task of assessing potential SG team leaders early on in the program's run. Which Jack chose to view as a sign of good old George's excellent delegation skills, rather than a hint he'd been being groomed for this set of stars even that far back. No, he was still hanging on to the theory that his current position was down to some kind of bureaucratic snafu. Or possibly a bet.

He hoped vindictively that someone had lost a lot of money on that one.

The truth was, he could wear the General's shiny shoes, and even march about in them. They just weren't very comfortable. Jack contemplated an extended metaphor about blisters, then decided to leave that well alone.

He wasn't made to sit behind a desk. He was made for this: a weapon, a target, and decisions that were never easy, but always simple. Move. Shoot. Act. Survive.

If only he wasn't going up against the goddamn Goa'uld.

Nothing like hand-picking a guy, teaching him everything that you could, and then having him switch sides on you: hostage and enemy all wrapped up in one inconvenient package. He knew Casey; more importantly, Casey knew him. Whether Baal and his minions knew SG-1 were here was uncertain, but as soon as they did, the snake pulling the strings in Casey's brain would have access to all his memories of Jack O'Neill to predict what he would do next.

Just as well Jack had always had gift for being unpredictable.

He waited for the Goa'uld's patrol to approaching his hiding spot, and then calmly stepped out in front of him.

"Hey there, Benny. Long time, no see."

To his disappointment, the Goa'uld didn't start in surprise, simply raised the ribbon-device - and what was Baal doing outfitting his underling with a ribbon-device, couldn't he be a suspicious bastard like the rest of the time? - and aimed it directly at Jack's head. But then, of course, he had to do the gloating thing.

"General O'Neill. My Lord Baal suspected that you would come to witness our venture sooner or later. He will be pleased to have your company again."

Jack was one hundred percent certain that his internal shudder didn't show on the surface. He hated himself for it all the same.

Only young idiots on a one-way trip to a body bag believed that you needed to be fearless to fight. Fear was the icy tingle in your guts that saved your life, time and time again. Fear told you that this situation was going to go bad, that this guy was too tough for you to take in a fair fight, that you had to get your teammate out of there now and not wait for the signal. Fear powered your instincts.

Terror stopped them. Terror was the freeze, the fumble, the moment when even fight or flight broke down, and you just let it all go and waited for the end to come.

What he felt when he remembered Baal's fortress was not fear.

"Yeah. Well, sorry as I am to deprive him of that pleasure-" Jack mentally counted beats as his mouth ran on autopilot, tracking Teal'c and Sheppard's progress in his mind, "-you're going to have to tell His Bounciness that the expiry date on that offer..." And that zat should be firing just about... now.

Or now. Or... now?

"I presume you are awaiting the rescue of Major Sheppard and the Shol'va," the Goa'uld said mildly. "I regret to inform you that they have been... detained."

Aw, crap.

"Uh, Colonel?"

Sam could have growled in frustration. The Ancient engine Baal had stolen and installed in the tel'tak could represent a huge leap forward in their understanding of hyperdrive technology. She really didn't want to destroy it if she didn't have to, but it was imperative that they not leave Baal in control of a ship with a working intergalactic drive. With the aid of the information the Tok'ra had decoded from Teshram's lab she was confident she could get the hyperdrive so thoroughly off-line it would take Baal months to restore it.

At least, she could if McKay would just. Stop. Talking. She'd done him the courtesy of assuming that, despite his lack of hands-on experience with Goa'uld craft, he'd be able to disable the sublight engines and weapon systems, but he hadn't stopped bitching about the assignment since they'd got aboard. Never mind that she'd seen the specs and was familiar with Baal's style of programming - so far as McKay was concerned, the engine was Ancient in design, so it should be his baby.

"McKay-" She turned and glared at him.

"Uh-uh-uh!" He raised a finger, but his stuttering attempt to grab her attention wasn't half as commanding as General O'Neill's bark. Sam tilted her head impatiently.

"What?" she snapped.

There was one thing to be said for the company of Rodney McKay - he was one of the very few people she felt no obligation whatsoever to be civil to. Arrogance? Lack of consideration? Blatant chauvinism? She could rock an icy stare and frigid politeness as well as the next girl. But once you started breaking out the blonde jokes? Die.

Instead of contrition, she got narrow-eyed petulance. "The life signs detector is showing only two of the lifeforms moving." McKay gave an obnoxious little cough. "Which, by the way, is a little disturbing, since if you recall, there should be three of our people out there. And the ones that are moving are headed away from both of the others, ergo-"

"Oh, cram it, McKay." Would it kill him to just state that their guys were in trouble without trying to wow her with his deductive skills? Sam pushed past him and opened up a very familiar six-panel button on the rear wall. "A hundred dollars says I can override the safety protocols on the rings to beam them in here before you can."

"Is that, er, US or Canadian?" He hurried over to join her.

Okay, current sit rep: sucktastic. Jack had no idea what had happened to Teal'c and Sheppard, or even if Casey was bluffing about taking them out. He doubted it, or they would be here by now. Best case scenario, they'd been ribbon-deviced to unconsciousness, or maybe Sheppard had been zatted.

Teal'c could not have been zatted, because a single zat blast wouldn't reliably put him down for the count, and two in succession were fatal. And since it was impossible that Teal'c could be dead, it followed that Teal'c had not been zatted. Logic.

Besides, he was pretty sure he would have heard.

So, ribbon-deviced, or good old-fashioned 'thumped with a blunt object'. On the plus side, they'd probably recover without ill effects. On the minus side, probably not quickly enough to do him any good. And Casey had disarmed him thoroughly, finding not just his extra knife but also the extra-extra knife. Note to self: no more gearing up in front of members of other SG teams. Of course, Jack's own team was just as likely - if not more so - to be victim to a takeover by hostile alien forces, but he figured that if one of SG-1 was playing host, concealed weaponry was the least of his worries.

"So, you know," he said over his shoulder as the Goa'uld herded him along, "I really think you're overestimating old Frisbee's level of interest in me." Not quite up to his usual standards, but sue him, there were only so many Baal jokes you could make before it got disturbingly filthy. "In fact, I'm not sure he even knows who I am, so-"

"Oh, he knows who you are," the thing with Casey's face said coolly. "And what. My master is... most intrigued by the prospect of a host with the activation gene."

At that point, Jack kicked him in the shins.

It wasn't a plan. It wasn't even a split-second choice to take advantage of a sudden opportunity. It was, in fact, bare-assed stupid. Jack's brain simply jumped from processing the words to a hard, fast and physical hell no without waiting for input from its rational centres. He was not having Baal in his head, no way, no how, no thank you.

One nugget of knowledge Earth had managed to export to their much more advanced allies was that sometimes, when things were at their most dire, there was just no substitute for good old-fashioned stupidity. It had the advantage of knocking for six an enemy who had just enough respect for you to believe you couldn't possibly be that dumb.

Casey staggered. Jack pressed his attack, mainly out of a lack of other viable options, but though he got in a few blows, he couldn't hope to take out a Goa'uld hand-to-hand. His chances of disarming it were even slimmer. Ribbon-devices were a bitch that way; not only were they impossible to turn back on their owner, but they were next to impossible to get off in the first place. The only good thing about going up against a ribbon-device was that they were fairly close range.

Unfortunately, right now so was he.

He swept Casey's legs in a manoeuvre that probably did more damage to his own knees than the enemy, and dived toward the tel'tak. It was a crappy-ass excuse for cover, but it beat duking it out. If he could just manage to avoid-

-Being slammed into the side of the ship by a blast of the ribbon-device.

Ow.

Jack crumpled to the ground, the air shoved out of his lungs with bruising force. The next thing he knew he was being hauled backwards. He looked up into a malevolent smirk that had no business being on the face of Benjamin Casey, and the palm of an upraised ribbon-device.

Then there was a burst of brilliant light.

...And then there was the face of Samantha Carter, leaning over him.

Jack was so glad he didn't have enough breath in his lungs to have voiced his first impulsive crack about angels. There was no way that wouldn't have come out embarrassingly sappy.

Carter smiled down at him. "I rigged the bio-filters on the rings to reject Goa'uld," she said brightly.

"That's nice, Carter," he told her, sitting up with a wince as his knees protested. He could see Teal'c sat against the wall of the tel'tak, clearly in the process of coming around, while Sheppard lay unconscious.

"Well, technically there was a thirty-four percent chance that the alterations would cause you and the Goa'uld both to be broken down to your component atoms and smeared across the cargo hold, but I corrected for that," McKay chimed in.

Jack looked askance at Carter. She shrugged unconcernedly. "It was a two percent chance at the most, sir."

"Where's Casey?"

"In the process of skedaddling," McKay noted, checking his life signs reader.

Carter shook her head before Jack could form the question. "Sorry, sir. He'll be out of the range of the rings before I can reprogram them."

The immediate need for speed over, Jack went to check on Teal'c. For a Jaffa on tretonin, kelno'reem was no longer a medical necessity - there not being a symbiote in there to actually try and commune with - but Teal'c was still in the habit of meditating whenever he was injured. Sure enough, Teal'c's eyelids flickered open.

"I apologise, O'Neill," he said, even more stiffly than usual. "I failed to anticipate the Goa'uld's stealth approach."

"It happens to the best of us, T." Jack patted him on the shoulder, and moved to check out Sheppard, who was receiving the Rodney McKay 'tentative prodding' school of medical attention.

"Is his face supposed to be that pink?" McKay wondered. "Because, you know, he doesn't even get sunburn. It's very annoying. I keep telling him, I have fair skin, I'm in the high risk category for melanoma, but-"

"He's fine, McKay," Jack said shortly.

"We should probably get all three of you checked out by Doctor Beckett, all the same," Carter said, because Carter had not gotten the memo about not feeding obsessive scientists new things to worry about.

Either that, or Carter was indulging her impressively well-hidden mean streak, and torturing McKay and everyone within earshot of him by extension.

"I'm fine, Carter," Jack added, rolling his eyes. In fact, he was - almost suspiciously so. He should be aching a lot more from the tussle he'd just been in, even if nothing was broken. He reflexively sent out a thought toward his clone.

Hey, you. Me. What are you doing?

The only response he got was a turbulent rise and fall of equations and half-formed dream images. If his clone had healed him, he'd done it without conscious thought.

Of course, the other possibility was that he'd healed himself. Uh. This him - this he? - had healed his own body- this particular version of his own body- Aw, crap. One of him had to have done it. Either way, it wasn't good. Even less good than the fact that he lived a life where "one of him" was a reasonable grammatical construction.

His condition was advancing, and it didn't really matter which him. Because the faster his clone went down, the faster he dragged Jack with him, and pretty soon he wouldn't be able to hide it.

But 'pretty soon' wasn't right now. He straightened up. "Carter. How much longer do you need?"

"Technically, we're done, sir. The ship's effectively disabled. It would take me months to figure out how to get it functional again, and even if Baal knows the system much better than we do..." She showed him a handful of crystals that he was just going to have to assume were vital parts of the onboard computer system.

"So... un-technically?"

"Well, sir, I was just thinking." She smiled warmly at him. "The maximum transport range of the rings would take us almost all the way back to the lab area. If we could somehow fool the city's biosensors into believing there are still life signs onboard the ship and then ring out, we have the opportunity to lure the Goa'uld into a trap."

Jack turned his head to look at McKay, their expert on the city's systems. "Can you do that?"

McKay folded his arms and glowered. "Of course I can do that."

"Good. Then do it."

It was about time they went on the offensive.