Chapter 4
Sam uncovered the dish on Daniel's tray. "Yeah, well, I'm not really sure what it is."
"I believe it is meant to be a pasta based dish," Teal'c offered. He voraciously attacked his bowl of noodles with enigma sauce.
Sam sat the cover aside and poked a straw into Daniel's milk carton.
Daniel snatched the carton out of her hand and shook his head.
"Sorry," she said, brushing the condensation off her hands.
Daniel finished readying his meal, all the while maintaining his steely silence.
Dinner with Sam and Teal'c had become habit, at least while they were on base. They'd bring their trays and one for Daniel to his room in the infirmary, and each would take a seat, desultorily meandering through a number of topics, all the while striving to maintain Daniel's focus and level of expanding comprehension. Some days, even Janet joined them.
His days were spent being filled with moments such as his dinner experience—people wandering in and out, rehabilitating his voice, working on his ability to function, making sure he didn't have a moment to himself. Not one moment to be silent, to retreat into the binding, constricting, safe quiet in order to regroup.
They kept coming and challenging him and frustrating him and angering him until the words stopped catapulting off the pages, until the cacophonous significance of sounds began to make sense. They pushed him sometimes beyond his limits until four words, five words, six words became a sentence roaring with multidimensional meaning. They prodded him endlessly to repeat repeat repeat. Good, now one more time, Daniel. That's it. Take a breath. Good…
And he was sick of it. And he was tired of the infirmary and the constant checking in on him. He was tired and frustrated by it all, not the least of which was the awkward tube jutting out of his neck.
"A few more days," the ear, nose and throat man had told him. "It's all looking good, but just to err on the side of caution, let's give it a few more days. Any problems with that?"
Problems with an opening in his neck? Aside from the occasional plug of mucus, the uncomfortable pressure placed on it when he had to speak or cough…except for those minor things-no, it was fine.
"Daniel?" Sam said, touching his knee.
Daniel looked up, gazed at the unfamiliar face staring back at him until it morphed into the features he knew very well. He lowered his eyes, frilled with lashes, and continued to poke at his food with his fork.
"Teal'c and I were just saying the weather is supposed to be nice this weekend," she said. "Would you like to get out of here?"
Daniel paused to let the entire string of words settle, and then, relatively sure he understood the invitation, he shrugged.
"Is that a yes, a no, a maybe, or an 'I don't understand'?" she asked.
He furrowed his brow and thought about the outside world, and couldn't conjure up on succinct image of what he missed.
"Come on. It will be fun, and it would be good for you to get some fresh air."
"While you're out," Jack said, stepping into the room, "why don't you get a hair cut?"
Daniel pushed his plate forward on his table, suddenly not in the least interested in eating.
"Colonel," Sam said, surprised by Jack's appearance.
Jack sauntered over to Daniel's tray, his hands deep inside his pockets. "So, Daniel…"
Daniel propped his elbow up on the armrest and smoothed out the deep ruts in his forehead.
Jack picked up the spoon off Daniel's tray and tapped a bowl full of orange Jell-o. "You gonna eat that?"
Daniel shook his head and wished Jack would just leave them to their quiet little dinner.
Jack took a bite of the gelatin and then tapped the spoon against Daniel's mug. "Coffee? You supposed to have caffeine?"
Her instinct to protect Daniel, even from Jack, was on full alert, and she wasn't going to let Jack goad Daniel into any provocation. "It's decaf, sir," Sam told him.
"Cool," Jack said. "So, getting back into the swing, huh?"
Daniel ignored Jack, largely because Jack's colloquialism didn't quite make sense to him. He was fairly sure it wasn't the fault of the aphasia.
Jack gave Teal'c a sheepish glance, who nodded almost imperceptibly to him, acknowledging that he understood the gesture Jack was attempting to make.
"So, Daniel, how's that feel?" Jack asked, pointing to the trach.
Daniel self-consciously rubbed his neck and nodded. His hands began to shake and he found that in the few passing moments, his mouth had turned to cotton. He picked up his glass of water and tipped it to his lips, but in a moment of missed signals between nerve endings, the water splashed against the back of his throat, and Daniel began to choke. He dropped his glass, and his hand slapped against the opening of the trach, and he coughed and spluttered, sending water across the table and floor and himself.
And then he started to panic.
The beast threw its hands up in front of its face, dropped to the floor, tried in desperation to clean the mess. Its hands rubbed frantic circles into the linoleum using only the cuff of its shirt to sop up water.
Sam knelt down next to him and tried to pull him up. "Daniel. Daniel, it's all right. Don't worry about it."
When it raised its face, the beast's eyes were wild and frightened. Its body shook and its eyes plummeted to the floor.
"Daniel, it's not a big deal. What's going on?" Sam asked, taking his hands, holding them still in her lap. "You just choked, that's all. Doctor Neville told you that might happen. Your muscles are weak. It's not a big deal."
The beast shook its head and it remembered the lessons. No, it thought. This is my mess. I'm sorry. I won't do it again…It pulled its hands away from her and began to dry the floor more fervently.
"Daniel," Sam said, touching his face, trying to be as gentle as possible, "don't worry about it. One of the orderlies will clean it up. It was just an accident."
The beast maintained its focus on the floor, just as it was taught to do. It stared and waited for the discipline it knew was coming and it knew it deserved.
"Should I call Janet?" Sam asked, glancing from Daniel's shaking body to Teal'c and the colonel.
"No," Jack all but whispered. He watched Daniel quail and recoil from enemies known only in his convoluted mind, and suddenly Jack was ashamed of himself. Ashamed of being so unforgiving and of being so cold. "No, just…let him ride it out."
The beast waited. It sat trembling and waited for the fists and the hands and the pain. It waited, and when only the silence surrounded him, he began to wonder, and Daniel peeked into the faces of his concerned friends.
"You okay?" Sam asked, hooking his bangs behind his ear.
The muscles in his jaw quaked. He slumped against the wall and crushed his hands into his eyes. This, too, he was tired of. This splitting, refracting sense of self-it was exhausting and terrifying.
"Sam? Teal'c?" Jack said, never taking his eye off Daniel. "Give us a minute, would ya?"
Sam looked over Daniel and wondered if this were such a good idea. He was pale and confused, shaking his head.
"We just need a minute to talk, Sam," Jack assured her, knowing he needed to apologize to her as well. "Please."
"Major Carter," Teal'c said, motioning toward the door. He understood this fragile moment, this time of Jack's mea culpa, and Teal'c fully intended to allow it to happen.
"Yeah, okay," Sam said, rising but never breaking her physical connection with Daniel. She touched his arm before reluctantly letting go, assuring him that she'd be just outside if he needed her. When she stood to leave, Sam shot a look at Jack, warning him not to mess with her. This was personal. This had nothing to do with rank.
"He'll be fine," Jack said. He set his jaw and nodded his head, and Teal'c and Sam vacated the room.
Daniel turned in his chin, tucking it against his chest, and hid his eyes from Jack. He wanted no part of a pep talk from Jack. He wanted no part of an apology. Not now. He just wanted to be left alone.
"You all right?" Jack asked, pushing the tray table aside, sweeping the broken glass away with his boot.
Daniel nodded and pinched the bridge of his nose, while the few remaining vestiges of the hypermnesia diffused.
"Trip down memory lane?" Jack asked.
Daniel nodded again.
"Can I help you up, or can you do it on your own?"
Daniel waited a moment before answering. Waited until he was fairly sure his legs, vibrating still from fear, could hold weight. He pushed himself away from the wall, grasped onto the chair and settled himself down, all the while keeping his shame hidden from Jack.
"How ya doin'?" Jack asked, sitting in the chair opposite Daniel. He crossed his long legs and propped his elbow up on the armrest.
Daniel's knees began to pop up and down, propelled by nervous energy.
Jack pulled his fingers over his end-of-the-day stubble and decided he needed to be straight with Daniel. "Look, Fraiser wants to send you to Mental Health. I think I can speak for you by saying you'd rather not go there." Daniel nodded once more. "Okay, then, here's the deal: You have to give them a reason not to send you."
Daniel shifted in his chair, shook his head and contorted his face in a series of expressions.
"Okay, well, one, you have to start speaking," Jack told him. "That's all there is to it. So let's talk. Right now. Tell me something."
Angrily, Daniel lifted one specifically chosen finger for an answer.
"Well, now technically that counts for two words, but since it was a gesture, I'm not going to allow it," Jack told him. "With your voice, Daniel. Let's talk."
Daniel shook his head and flat out refused.
"Come on, Daniel. You have to talk."
Daniel picked up a pencil on the adjoining table.
"No," Jack said, seizing the pencil from Daniel's hand, " I want you to talk, not write."
Daniel cocked his head to the side and closed his eyes. What right did he have? Daniel thought. What goddamn right? He pressed his fingers to the opening of the tube and sucked in a deep, throaty breath. "Hard."
The harshness of Daniel's aspiration and the abraded sound of his voice stunned Jack, but he soon recovered. "Hard. What's hard?"
Daniel glowered at him, pulled in a deep breath through the tracheotomy, covered the opening and said, "Talk…talking…hard."
"I don't care," Jack told him. "Suck it up. Figure it out. Deal with it, but start talking. The constant head bobbing is making me dizzy."
"When…" Daniel began, lifting his chin, "you…see me bobbing?"
Jack chose to ignore the jab. After all, Daniel did have a point, but it was time to go forward. "Look, nothing says wack-city like silence. So…" Jack waved his hands in the air, cuing Daniel that it was time to speak. Daniel wasn't buying. "So, talk to me."
Daniel evaded the order by turning away. He tightened his expression and refused to listen anymore.
"Fine. You want to go take a little holiday in MacKenzie's funhouse, be my guest," Jack said, "but if you want to stay here, among the land of the not-so-drugged, you're going to have to talk. Your choice, Daniel."
Daniel's shoulders slumped. He straightened back up, and they slumped again. He lifted his hand to the trach and said, "Fine."
"Good, now, next thing: You've been taking pretty good stock of your navel lately. It's not goin' anywhere."
Daniel scowled.
"Hey, you don't look at people, they think you've got something to hide. Daniel," Jack said, "look at me."
Look at Jack. Look at Jack and let him see what I don't even want to see? Daniel thought. Look him in the eye when I know better than to do that?
"Daniel," Jack said, his eyes and expression tender, "look at me."
With his fear of the outcome of such audacity and willfulness fully engaged, Daniel forced himself to raise his eyes and directly look at Jack. It lasted only a moment, and then his heart began to race, but the profundity of safety within those black eyes was something Daniel needed, something he had lost long ago on a planet whose name he didn't even know. He lowered his eyes again, but kept with him a modicum of home.
Jack's heart clenched watching Daniel avoid looking him in the eye. He almost had him for a moment—filled with fear, his blue gaze had locked on his for an all too brief flicker. Then it was gone. Jack knew it was probably his fault, that if he hadn't been so full of damn pride and his own pain, that maybe Daniel would be able to meet his focus.
"Look, I know I've been…unavailable. And, yeah, I'm sorry about that. I am, Daniel. I wish I could…" Jack stopped and raked his hand through his hair. "The point is this: I'm here now, and I want to make sure Fraiser and the rest don't railroad you into going to Mental Health."
Daniel agreed with that. He nodded.
"I've screwed up. I know. But," Jack paused, "so did you when you walked away on LW3-657."
Daniel threw his hand to his neck. "I…say…said I s-sorry."
"I know. And it's over, but if you want me to protect you, you're going to have to do what I say."
Protect, Daniel thought. He was absolutely unconvinced anyone could protect him. Still, he nodded.
"No, I need to hear it," Jack reminded him.
Daniel rolled his eyes and rasped out the word, "Okay."
"Good," Jack said. "I'm gonna let Teal'c and Sam back in. We understand each other? You follow these simple orders and you'll be fine."
More orders, Daniel thought. Will I be able to? What will happen if I…can't?
"Good." Jack rose from his seat, poked his head out the door and crossed to the open bed where he sat so the others could finish their food among the chairs.
"You okay, Daniel?" Sam asked, returning to her seat.
Daniel nodded, and Jack cleared his throat. Daniel touched the opening of the trach and said, "Yes. Okay."
Sam, surprised by the actual words, glanced at Jack and then Teal'c. "Wow. Well, good."
"Is there anything further you would like to eat, DanielJackson?" Teal'c asked.
He began to nod when he saw Jack out of the corner of his eye. Daniel forced himself to look at Teal'c. "No. I…okay."
Jack nodded, satisfied that Daniel was going to follow the protocol. He was sure things would change for the better now, and he was rather pleased with himself for finding the right mixture of compassion and pathos.
"Hey," Sam said, changing the subject, "did you hear Major Grand is getting married?"
While the subject floated around him with no great consequence, Daniel wrapped his chilled hands around his tepid coffee mug to keep them from shaking.
SG1SG1SG1SG1SG1SG1SG1SG1
"Okay, that's it. I'm done," Jack said, trying to rub some feeling back into his posterior. "I've waited long enough. I sit here much longer and I'll need a hip replacement."
"They said they'd be back…shortly," Daniel said, rummaging through the pockets of his vest in search of a stick of gum, a mint, a protein bar- anything.
"Who's to say what shortly means to them, Daniel?" Jack shot back. "No. We're outta here."
"Now, hold on a minute, Jack," Daniel said, abandoning his search. "I think we ought to wait. They said they'd be back. I said I'd be here. I'd like to, you know, be here."
"And what if they do come back?" Jack asked. "What are we going to learn that we don't already know?"
"Well, I won't know that unless we wait," Daniel said, letting his head fall to the side to show his frustration.
"Look, Daniel, I think Colonel O'Neill is right. I mean, this entire mission has been a bust. They come out of their homes. They look us over. They go back in. They send one out to say they'll be with us shortly," Sam said. "Something tells me they're just yankin' our chains."
"Exactly," Jack said. "Couldn't have said it better myself."
"And maybe they're trying to decide if they can trust us," Daniel said, lifting his hands in exasperation. "I think leaving at this time wouldn't be conducive to showing our trust."
"And I think leaving at this time would be conducive to staying on schedule, so let's move it," Jack said, walking toward the Stargate.
Daniel held his ground and shook his head. "No, Jack. I think we ought to wait."
"Daniel, I'm not in the mood. Plus, I'm hungry. You know how I get when I don't have my mid-mission snack," Jack said, relying on his sarcasm once again, and motioning Daniel to follow Teal'c, Sam and him.
"Why don't I just go talk to them, see what's holding them up?" Daniel offered, turning to the Eporian's home.
"Why don't you not, and save me the aggravation," Jack said. "Come on, Daniel. That's an order."
"I'll be just a minute," Daniel called back, jogging the twenty feet to the adobe style home.
"Tell me he didn't just defy me," Jack asked of Sam, who shrugged in reply. "Worse than a damn child. Daniel!" Jack yelled. He began to stride toward the home, digging his heels in with each step.
Daniel turned his head and waved Jack back. He turned the corner into the common area between the homes and was met by a terrific jolt of pain. Within seconds he was on the ground, gagged and bound, pulled through the gravelly dirt to a point where his captors all stopped.
A split second before Daniel's body slipped away in a stream of matter along with his three abductors, he saw Jack's face screaming at him. Saw Jack pull up his P-90 and fire. Saw his friend, furious and combative, for the last time.
Eight months later, Daniel sat in his room in the infirmary, his throbbing head held in one hand, while his other hand drew one long, continuous circle on a pad of paper.
Why didn't I just do what I was told? he asked himself. Jack was trying to protect me. I walked right into an ambush. Why didn't I follow orders?
Around and around, until the pencil lead wore away the paper below it. Until the sheet under it began to wear away.
Jack was trying to protect me, and I was so stupid.
Hundreds of concentric circles bit through the paper without the least amount of awareness on Daniel's part.
So stupid.
Compulsively and unaware, Daniel continued to draw until the lead snapped and the shattered end of the pencil thumped against the paper. Stunned, Daniel stared at the mess—specks of graphite littering a hole dug into paper. He let go of the pencil and carefully picked up one of the torn-away, pea-sized paper circles from the rest. He held it between his fingers and concentrated on it, wondered why this tiny circle of paper edged with black made sense to him. He looked it over and found it to be perfect and simple and marvelously contained-an entire universe within its circumference. The Objective Universe, where reality is only real for those in the center. Where reality comes down to what you make of it. Where things can be fine and safe and calm if you decide they will be.
If you decide what the rules are. If you realize you can't make the rules anymore.
Daniel pressed the piece of paper into the palm of his hand and focused on it until his heartbeat slowed, until all he could see was the whiteness in the center.
Until he was the nucleus of this Objective Universe and his trajectory would be one of following rules.
Following Jack.
SG1SG1SG1SG1SG1SG1SG1SG1
Daniel and Jack walked at a leisurely pace through the halls—leisurely for Jack; a little too quick for Daniel. He let his eyes wander around the familiar surroundings, the buzz of activity. Had it always gone on so quickly?
"How's it goin'?" Jack asked while they walked. "You all right?"
"I think…thought I walk faster," he said, while an airman passed on his right. "Guess I…Guess I'm still weak."
"You'll get there," Jack said, patting Daniel on the back, which elicited an immediate flinch. "Sorry about that."
Daniel shook his head and rounded out his lips to control his breathing. Touching, especially from behind, was more than he could deal with. He'd have to make that clear to Jack and the others, but he'd have to do it without telling them why. Without having to understand why himself.
"This shouldn't take that long," Jack said, peering around the corner to make sure no one would run into the two. "But during it, at any time, if you need to stop, just tell me."
Daniel nodded, not because he couldn't say the words, but because the long walk was taking a toll on his cardiovascular system, so used to recovering in the infirmary. The muscles in his legs were beginning to twitch and burn, and a thin layer of sweat cooled the back of his neck.
"Why don't we take a wheelchair?" Jack had said in the infirmary when Daniel was ready to go. Daniel was a thousand light years away in memory and so didn't answer. Didn't even hear. Jack took Daniel's silence to mean that he'd rather walk—a man has his pride and all—so Jack shook his head and said, "Better yet, let's walk. The exercise will do you good."
That part Daniel had heard. Daniel really didn't think he was up to the quarter mile walk, but it was part of the bargain he had made with Jack—do what Jack says, and everything will be fine.
Daniel wanted everything to be fine. In a desperation he couldn't articulate, he needed everything to be fine, so he said, "Yes. Walk. Okay."
A few feet from the briefing room, and everything was fine. Jack had kept his promise, so Daniel began to relax in the fact that he could walk and be all right. Jack was right. Trust Jack.
"Doctor Jackson, it's a pleasure to see you here," General Hammond said, offering his hand in welcome to Daniel. Daniel looked at the hand a moment and then took it. The general pumped his hand with a certain amount of care but also with great affection, and then motioned for him to sit down.
Daniel glanced around the room with a distinct measure of self-consciousness. A video camera had been set up at the end of the table to record his words, sparse as they may be. Sam touched his hand as he passed, smiled for only him to see; Teal'c bowed his head and held the chair for Daniel; Paul Davis reached across the table to shake Daniel's hand.
"It's great to see you again, Doctor Jackson," he said, closing both hands around Daniel's. "You're looking well."
Daniel slipped his hand away from Paul's and nodded, tried to smile. Then he took his seat.
General Hammond looked at Daniel and gave him a brief smile, hoping to reassure the young man, perhaps even give him a boost. "Our goal for today is to get your interpretation as to the events leading up to and surrounding your eight months away from the SGC. It will be video taped, as all our debriefings are, and you will be asked a series of questions, both by me and by Major Davis." General Hammond opened his file and looked over the young man, a mere husk of his former self. "Doctor Jackson, is there anything you need before we begin?"
Daniel's hand trailed up to his trach. He covered it with a light touch, cleared his throat and croaked out, "Water…please."
"Allow me," Paul Davis said, feigning his cheer. He stepped to the sideboard and picked up the pitcher of water and a glass. The vibration of the carafe against the glass was the only outward sign he showed that Daniel's appalling condition and wrecked voice unnerved him. He turned back around, handed the glass to Daniel, saw the ragged scars on his wrist and sat down. Paul took a tissue from his pocket and wiped the sweat from his upper lip.
"Let's begin with…LW3-657," General Hammond said, running his hand across his notes.
"W-where do…you want start?" Whether it was the tube in his throat, the ten sets of eyes riveted to him, or the terrible burden of having to think back, Daniel could barely make himself heard.
General Hammond glanced quickly at the video camera. "I'm sorry, Doctor Jackson, but if you could be so kind as to speak up a little…"
Daniel frowned and nodded. He took a sip from the water and tried again. Daniel placed the pad of his finger over the tracheotomy. "Is…this better?"
"Yes, thank you, Doctor."
"When I go…no—went talk with Eporians, um, I was…hit, um…" Daniel touched the back of his head, showing them where he had received the blow. "I remember…uh…" When the words would not come, Daniel wound his hand around his wrist and looked to Jack to interpret the meaning.
"Bound, sir," Jack said, looking at Hammond.
Daniel nodded. "Uh, they…drag me to middle ground. I don't know what…um, what way they bring me ship. To ship."
"That's the last thing you remember about LW3-657?" Paul Davis asked.
Jack's angry eyes, his voice furiously screaming out Daniel's name-this was his last memory. Being taken away from Jack because he refused to comply, this was Daniel's final memory from LW3-657. This was his underlying pain.
"I'm sorry, Doctor Jackson, was that a yes or no?" Davis asked.
"Yes."
"What happened next?" General Hammond asked.
"Nothing. I was in room for I believe…um, twenty days."
"Were you alone?"
"No. Um, twenty-four when we begin. Began. Seventeen, I think, when we land."
"Seven others died?" Davis asked for the group who had never heard this gruesome fact before.
Daniel lifted the glass to his lips and sipped, taking care not to choke. He placed the cup back down, keeping his hand against the cool side. "Yes. Um, three sick. Two die of injury, yes? Uh, two kill each other."
"There were fights aboard the ship?" General Hammond asked. "Those in the room with you fought against each other?"
Daniel looked at the general trying to sort out the correct phrasing. "No," he said, blinking his eyes. "They kill…um…"
"They killed themselves?" Jack offered.
Daniel nodded and began to feel a familiar chill settle into his body.
There was an inaudible yet palpable gasp from those present in the room. This was the darkness of the memory that Sam was afraid would come. She had sat through hundreds of debriefings before, but none had made her feel as if the questions were intrusive. She wanted to rush the camera, throw her hands over the lens and demand the inquisition be ended. They were only days into the memories of those lost months, and already she felt as if she had heard enough. As if she and the others had no right to know more.
"All right," General Hammond said, understanding they need not pursue that any further. "After the twenty days. What happened next?"
"Reached different planet and…eight taken. Me and seven more. Um, taken to room. I was only human. Uh, two Unas, three…Jaffa, one that I don't…I not sure what." Daniel pulled his cold hand into his shirtsleeves, leaving only one finger free to press against the trach. He slid his other hand under his arm for warmth. "Um, in room we—uh, if we wore clothing—were…stripped?" Sam nodded that he had chosen correctly. Daniel went on. "Uh, in line and…I'm sorry. I don't know word. Um…" He crushed his eyes shut and concentrated on finding the icon for who or what had purchased him.
"Take your time, Daniel," General Hammond all but whispered.
Daniel nodded his thanks to the general.
"You okay?" Jack asked, leaning toward Daniel.
Daniel shook his head and blurted out, "Beings."
"Excuse me?" Paul Davis said.
"Beings entered room to…look over us. One stop…stopped in front me and…" and pried open my mouth with his short, clawed finger, and then smacked me to the ground when I bit him. They laughed. They all just laughed.
"Daniel?" Sam said, touching his arm.
Hadn't he been speaking? Hadn't he told them? "I'm sorry."
"That's okay," Paul Davis said. "You said someone stopped in front of you. What happened after that?"
"I think…um, uh…" Daniel paused, tried out the word first in the silence of his mind, and then rasped, "sold."
General Hammond shook his head, disgusted by the thought. "You were sold? Are you saying someone or something bought you?"
"Yes."
Paul Davis wondered what question he could possibly ask next that wouldn't sound cruel. Nothing. There was absolutely no reason to examine why anyone would buy or sell Daniel Jackson. He didn't want to know. He didn't think others needed to know. He went on. "Where were you taken next?"
"The being who…took me a different ship," Daniel said. "Excuse me." Daniel took another sip of water. His throat ached from the constant talking, an act which he was certainly unaccustomed to. He rubbed his hands together to warm them while he tried swallowing against the scratchiness in his throat.
Jack touched the armrest of Daniel's chair. "Daniel, we can…"
"No. I'm fine," he said, waving Jack off. Jack removed his hand and sat back in his chair. "I was place…placed in um, box—no, cage—for travel."
"How long were you in transit?" the general asked.
"Hard to say. My guess, four days," Daniel told them.
"During which time, how were you treated?" Paul Davis asked taking notes so he wouldn't have to actually show Daniel how abhorrent all this was to him.
"How was I treated?" Daniel asked.
"Yes. Were you fed, given time outside the confinement, allowed to shower, use facilities?" Paul asked, knowing it sounded naïve.
"I was fed," Daniel said. And beaten and given a glimpse at what my life would become, such as it were. Daniel's hand fell to his lap and he lowered his tired eyes.
Davis turned the pages of his report, readied his pen and asked, "Did your captors ever try to gain any information about the Stargate Program?"
"If they did, I…I would…wouldn't know," Daniel said.
"Daniel?" Jack said, placing his hand on Daniel's slumped shoulder. Daniel's head shot up. "Do you want to take a break?"
Daniel shook his head and then remembered what Jack had told him. He closed the opening of his trach and said, "I'm fine."
"Doctor Jackson, do you have any idea who it was that…procured your services?" General Hammond said.
Even with his aphasia, Daniel thought the use of the phrase 'procured your services' seemed an appropriately grim euphemism, and General Hammond had no idea the dark humor he had just conjured up in Daniel's mind. "I…I never knew. Um, they d-d-did not speak."
"These…people," the general asked for clarity, "they didn't speak to you?"
"No, sir," Daniel said. "They had no…oral lan-language."
Paul Davis put down his pen. "Then how did you communicate?"
"I didn't."
"Daniel, how did they communicate to each other?" Sam asked.
Forbidden glances of angry faces. Eyes turning him to cinders with a hate filled look. Exaggerated silent conversations, punctuated by pugilistic fear tactics. Unheard commands that only became clear after punishment. Commands that all the others but Daniel understood.
"I think…they were, um…" Daniel shut his eyes, "…yes, telepathic."
"They could read each other's thoughts?" Paul Davis asked, looking to General Hammond to see if the general understood the importance of the discovery.
"Yes."
"Were you ever able to find a way to communicate with them?" he asked.
They beat me. They slapped me. They dragged me. They…they…Yes, we communicated very clearly. "Somewhat."
"But why did they put that liner in your throat?" the general asked. "Did they not, in effect, take away your primary way to communicate with them?"
"I think they…maybe if I can't talk, I can learn…uh, telepathy?" Daniel as much asked as said.
"They muted you so you could learn to be telepathic, and you bought that?" Jack asked.
"Colonel," the General warned, shooting Jack an irritated look. "Doctor Jackson, is it your assumption that you were muted in order to better communicate with the alien beings?"
"Yes," he said, and as soon as it was out of his mouth, he knew he had created another layer of deception around his already multi-layered psyche. Daniel lowered his head and rubbed his eyes.
There was a silence that filled the room while each began to digest the horror of what had happened to Daniel. Finally, Paul Davis resumed his questioning. "Doctor Jackson, while you were with these—I'm sorry, but were they people or some other form of life?"
"Most were…uh, very similar to…humans."
"Fine," Davis said, making a note of it. "When you were with these people, what function did you have?"
Daniel had prepared for this answer over the last few days, knowing it would be asked. "I was, um…you call domestic."
"You were a servant of sorts?" the general asked.
"Of sorts, yes," Daniel said, unable to meet the general's eyes. Daniel's swallowed against his sore, burning throat and the rancid lie he had to now ingest.
"Only a few more questions, Doctor," Paul Davis said. "In her reports on your medical condition, Doctor Fraiser said that there was some sort of healing device used on you repeatedly. Can you describe it, and was it at all like the Goa'uld technology we are familiar with?"
Daniel closed his eyes and rested his head against the back of the chair. Concentrate on the words, not the memory. Words. "A circle of…of light. Like MRI only…very pain. Painful. I don't know how works."
"Interesting," Paul Davis said. "Were the effects of the light instantaneous or did they only aid in the healing?"
"Instant," Daniel told him, not ready to open his eyes.
General Hammond took in the pallor of Daniel's skin and decided that any further questions could wait. "I think that's all for the day."
Paul Davis said, reading over his notes, "Actually, I had-"
"They'll have to wait," the general told him.
Paul looked up from his notes and watched Daniel lift a trembling hand to his forehead. "Yes, sir," Davis agreed, closing his file.
"Doctor Jackson, we thank you for your time. We may ask that you join us again in a few days, but until then, you are excused."
Jack helped Daniel stand up, knowing from past experience how draining a debriefing could be. "Easy does it," he said, cupping Daniel by the emaciated upper arms and helping him from his seat. Jack gave a perfunctory nod to the general and said, "Thank you, sir."
Daniel stood, a little less than steady, nodded to the general and to the rest, and then let Jack escort him out of the room.
"You did good," Jack told him in an aside.
Daniel nodded, relieved that he had done well enough by Jack's standards. Relieved that by following Jack's directions, things had, in fact, gone relatively well.
This time when Jack asked if he wanted a wheelchair, Daniel heard.
And did exactly as Jack said.
SG1SG1SG1SG1SG1SG1SG1SG1
Sam stood outside the door to Daniel's private quarters—a square room with a bunk, a table and a chair-the absolute lowest point on Maslow's hierarchy, but a huge step in Daniel's recovery. It signified that he was no longer ill enough to be cooped up in the infirmary, but not yet strong enough to go home on his own. A halfway house. A purgatory between solace and perdition.
The door to the room opened, and Janet walked out, almost running into Sam. "Oh, hi, Sam. I was just checking in on Daniel."
"How is he?" Sam asked, glancing into the room.
"I'm not sure. I removed the trach today, so that should make a difference, but…" Janet took Sam by the arm and led her away from the door. "I need to make some decisions about his care. I think it's time we consulted Mental Health, and I think I should be doing that now."
"He's not going to like that," Sam said.
"He doesn't have a choice."
Sam could only hold Janet's tired focus, knowing her decision was based on Janet's observations of Daniel from the perspective of a physician, not a friend. "Does he know?"
"I think so. When I ask him how he's doing with all the changes, he looks away and just…I don't know, sort of drifts," Janet said.
"Yeah, I've seen that."
"Look, I have a mound of paperwork. I'll let you go," Janet said. She patted Sam's elbow and walked away. Sam stepped to Daniel's gray door, rapped on it, and popped her head inside.
"Hey, Daniel," she said, smiling.
Daniel stormed up out of his chair when she entered. "Sam."
"You don't have to get up. In fact, why'd ya get up?" she asked, looking at him askance.
"I…I…" Daniel stammered and then sat back down. "I don't…"
"It's okay." Sam sat next to him and placed a small wax bag in front of him. "Here. I smuggled them in."
"Cookies."
"Yeah."
"You…you're …trying to fat me," Daniel said, then shook his head and tried again, "…fatten me."
"Kind of," Sam admitted.
"Thank you," he said, in his still weak, gravelly voice. He cleared his throat and pushed the cookies aside. "I…I…" he began and decided just to plow forward, forget about trying to find correct verb phrase, "…eat them, uh, later."
"Okay," she said. Her eyes caught the sight of the fresh bandage on his neck, the place where the trach had just hours ago peeked out. With a sigh, she realized he was in for a new scar. Just another memento of this horrific event.
And when she paused a moment just to look at him, she wondered if he was aware of the healed gash that snuck into his mouth from his cheek. She wondered with a roiling stomach how his nose came to have a subtle angle in it, tweaking it over to the side. She wondered if, when he looked, he knew how the wounds came to be on his wrists. He didn't hide them, nor did he mention them. She wondered…
Daniel fingered a small circular piece of paper between his fingers, ragged around the edges, worn soft from manipulation. Daniel's eyes, dark in the subdued light, never left the scrap of paper in his hands. "Sam?"
"Yeah?"
"Do you… um, do you…remember …"
"What, Daniel? Do I remember what?"
"Your cat."
Sam lifted her eyebrows and blinked. "My cat? Schrodinger?"
Daniel nodded.
"Yeah."
"Tell me w-why…uh, Schrodinger."
"Why did I name him that?" she asked. Daniel nodded. "For Schrodinger's Cat. You know, the explanation for quantum physics—how a cat in a box can be both dead and alive at the same time. I thought it was kind of…well, at the time I thought it was pretty original. Turns out its a physicist's first choice for cat names."
"Lots of them?"
"Oh, yeah. Kind of embarrassing," she said, rubbing the red from her cheeks. "Why? What's the sudden interest in my cat?"
Daniel pressed the small circle into his palm and closed both hands around it. "How is the cat both?"
Sam pulled her brow down low and searched his face for any clue as to why they were discussing quantum physics. "Well, it's just a theory—an oversimplification of an explanation on how atoms react, really. See, when a cat is in a closed box, until it is observed, it can be both alive and dead at the same time. Now, when we open up that box, the cat can only be one or the other. Therefore, using this theory, when we observe an atom, we can make measurements which way it is moving. It's the Theory of Complementarity set up by the Copenhagen Interpretation that said…"
"The atom…does it…know?" Daniel asked, touching his finger to the center of the paper circle.
"Does it know what?"
"Which way it…it's moving."
Sam was stymied, her thoughts fractured in a thousand disparate directions. What a strange conversation, she thought. In milliseconds, between coming up with an answer and finding the words to easily explain it, she also tried to pin down a reason for Daniel asking. "Well, the atom doesn't exactly know where it is or where it is going. I mean, if it knew where it was, it wouldn't know where it was going at all. See, if it knows where it is going, then, it doesn't have a clue about where it is. What I'm trying to say is quantum entities can't exactly be pinned down to a specific location, and there's always going to be some uncertainty about where they are going. Does this make sense at all?"
Daniel's head shifted from side to side. "Um, yes. A little."
"Daniel, why do you ask?"
Daniel closed his hands around the thin scrap of paper. He became silent and introspective, changing her word to useable images. Images of stillness, of silence, of closed compartments and freedom from cognitive servitude.
"Daniel?" Sam whispered, touching his joined hands.
"I understand. Now."
"Then help me understand," she said, forcing her fingers between his two hands. "Help me understand what happened to you."
The look of pain that crossed his face touched Sam in a way she thought years in the military had excoriated from her soul. He opened his hands slightly, allowing her in further, screwed his lips up in a tight pucker and shook his head. He dropped his chin to his chest and for a brief moment, neither drew in breath nor let out the changed air.
Sam laid her other hand on his arm and leaned closer to him. "Daniel. Please talk to me."
When his eyes came up, the sadness filling them seemed to spill out into the small room, pulling in the already pressing walls, dampening the already dimmed lights. "Why, Sam? Would…would it be easy…easier to know?"
"It would be easier if I could just understand."
Daniel looked deeply into her eyes, imploring her with his sorrow. "If I knew, would tell you. But, I…don't know. I don't want to know. Please, Sam. Don't make…don't make me choose."
"Choose what, Daniel?"
Daniel pulled his hands into his lap and closed his eyes. "I—I'm tired."
And just like that, her window to him was closed. Just like that, she missed her opportunity to gather him up and carry him away from his own torment.
"Okay," she whispered. Sam stood up and walked toward the door. She tapped the handle and just as quickly turned back to Daniel. "May I..." she asked, holding out her hands.
Daniel looked up at her with tense, anxious eyes, dark and swollen underneath. When he didn't make an effort to tell her not to, Sam slowly wrapped her arms around his shoulders and tucked her face into his neck.
"I'm sorry it took so long to find you, Daniel," she wept, shocked by the suddenness of her own tears. In her arms, Daniel was rigid, trembling to a small yet frightening degree. "We tried so hard to find you, but…I'm so sorry."
When he couldn't stand the contact anymore, Daniel wriggled away from her, hoping she wouldn't be offended by his need to get away, but he knew if he let her arms encircle him any longer he'd be beyond his already tenuous control of his emotions.
Sam uncoiled her arms and wiped her nose. She slid her hands into her back pockets and sniffed. "I'm sorry. I guess I needed that more than you, huh?"
Daniel's eyes fluttered, but he remained silent.
She gave him one last forlorn smile and said, "Sleep well, Daniel," before leaving his quarters.
Daniel heard the door click and then he rushed to his feet, rubbing his arms and shoulders through the heavy cotton sweater, reworking the signals his nerve endings sent to his brain, hoping that by scrubbing his skin he could fool his mind into thinking that there hadn't been arms around him; that no one had just touched him; that his body wasn't pinned down, held against his will. He scrubbed and abraded his skin with his palms and his nails until he ached and his skin seared.
Until he no longer could feel anything but pain.
SG1SG1SG1SG1SG1SG1SG1SG1
He had the terrifying sensation of utter paralysis but acute sensory perception. One hundred scratching and clawing hands touched him, tore him open, sliced through his body. His cries stuck in his throat—stuffed down with the rest in suffocation. And when the pain became unbearable, he awoke.
Sitting on the edge of his bed, his linens twisted and damp with sweat, Daniel held his head in his hands and hunched over his knees, rocking and contracting into a trembling coil of fear. From deep within him, the poison in his soul rumbled, and Daniel scrambled toward the garbage can, hoping to make it before he became sick.
Panting and heaving over the receptacle, Daniel couldn't tell if his tears were from the vomiting or his consuming terror, this memory that bubbled up in his mind at night, bursting with frenzied images and horrific acts.
And he was always the center, immobilized, unable to move.
Daniel vomited long past the point of there being anything left in his burning gut. When at last he could feel his stomach calming, he slumped back onto his bony hipbones and propped himself up against the cold concrete wall in the darkened privacy of his quarters. He pulled his knees up and wept, and while he wept, the lingering remains of the dream electrified his frayed and tattered nerve endings, pinched into his most tender flesh.
Without even realizing it, Daniel began to list and roll to the floor, where he curled himself into a timorous mass. There, his arms wrapped protectively around his waist, he pulled in on himself and began to mute the screams that roared in his ears, to diminish the burning in his body, to forget.
He doubled over his thoughts, kneaded away the memory until there was nothing. Until it was silent once again, and nothing could touch the beast.
Until he was both dead and alive.
SG1SG1SG1SG1SG1SG1SG1SG1
It wasn't the meeting he wanted to have, but nonetheless, Jack showed up at the appointed time to have a chat with the general, Doc and the new chief of Mental Health. They had told him the doctor's name, but Jack didn't even let it sink in. Didn't matter.
He puffed up his most petulant self and walked into the meeting, a few minutes late, just enough time to show his disinterest.
"Colonel O'Neill," General Hammond said. "Glad you could make it."
"You kidding? Wouldn't miss this for the world," Jack said, taking his seat. A woman sat in front of him-mid 50's, ramrod straight posture and slicked back chestnut hair in a bun that Jack thought was probably torqued three turns too tight. "I bet you're that new doc from Mental Health. Jack O'Neill," he said, reaching across the table.
"Doctor Abigail Sebastian," she said, taking off her glasses before accepting the hand.
"Heard you're the big cheese over at the nut house," Jack said, sitting back down. Doctor Sebastian was not amused. "Whatever happened to good ol' Doc MacKenzie? Gosh, I'm gonna miss him."
"Doctor MacKenzie has retired and is in private practice," Doctor Sebastian said.
"Lucky civvies, getting a cracker-jack like MacKenzie," Jack said.
"Doctor Sebastian is here to consult on Doctor Jackson," General Hammond said, putting an end to Jack's insistence to show his disrespect for her profession.
Jack took a deep breath, keeping his eye on Doctor Sebastian, and then with a flourish, let it all out in one big whoosh. "Why?"
"Surely, Colonel, you realize Doctor Jackson has been through a traumatic event," she said, weaving her fingers together on the table.
"Yeah, I realize he's banged up, but I think he's coming around," Jack said. "Besides, none of us are really sure what happened to him, including, I might add, you."
Doctor Sebastian opened a manila folder and said, "The reports I'm receiving…"
"Which are grossly lacking in facts," Jack added.
"Yes, well, be that as it may, the reports I'm receiving are that he is withdrawn, emotionally detached, uncommunicative…"
"He had his trachea lined!" Jack cried. "Give him a break!"
"Yes, but…"
"And really, what you're describing sounds like me before I've had my morning coffee."
"Colonel O'Neill…" Doctor Sebastian said, pulling a different file from the stack in front of her. "Yes, I've read your file."
"I bet you wished you'd known me when you were writing your thesis, huh?" Jack said. Doctor Sebastian glared at him.
"Colonel O'Neill, I'd appreciate your cooperation in this matter," General Hammond warned.
"Look, you asked me to this meeting to discuss Daniel. I'm his CO, and my perspective is he's just tired," Jack said, turning first one way and then back in his chair. "You said it yourself—he's been through a hell of an ordeal. I think if we just let him rest for a while, get his bearings, he'll be fine."
"Fine?" Doctor Sebastian reiterated.
"Yes. Fine."
"Irritable heart," she said, closing the file.
"How's that?"
"That's how Civil War surgeons used to describe it," she said, sitting back and holding her pen between her hands. Two hazel eyes set under thin lids offered a flat-eyed stare. "Those soldiers who came back from Gettysburg and Shiloh, Andersonville with symptoms of depression, sleep disorders, chest pains, thoughts of or attempts at suicide—they were diagnosed with 'Irritable Heart.' Oh, later on they changed the name. During the World Wars it became 'Shell Shock,' or 'Combat Fatigue.' Tell me, Colonel, is George Patton one of your personal heroes?" she asked, tired of her profession being offensively passed off by idiotic lay people.
Jack leaned forward and pressed his hands against the table. He set his cold eyes on her like a laser beam. "As a matter of fact…"
"I guessed as much." Doctor Sebastian, a full ranking colonel herself, pulled her dress blue uniform jacket down over her waist. "Maybe we could just bleed him, get all those bad spirits out of his system. What do you think, Colonel? Do you think that will help?"
"Isn't that what you're planning on doing?"
"Colonel O'Neill, Doctor Sebastian, I believe we're here to discuss Doctor Jackson," General Hammond reminded them.
"Yes, sir. I apologize, sir," she said. Doctor Sebastian regained her composure and stared at Jack with lifeless eyes. "There's been some change in thinking in the last thirty years. Now it's called PTSD—Post Traumatic Stress Disorder."
"I know what it is," Jack snapped.
"Good, then I won't have to go through the laundry list of symptoms with you."
"Look, General, this is ridiculous," Jack said.
"I think we need to listen to Doctor Sebastian, Colonel," General Hammond said, trying to give Jack some leeway.
"I think I'd know if he were stressed," Jack said. "He's not. Tired, yes. Sorting through some things, possibly, but he's not crazy."
"Nobody said he's crazy, Colonel, and if you think I did, then perhaps you don't know what PTSD is at all," Doctor Sebastian said.
"I know what you want to do here," Jack started. He could feel his buttons all being pushed and he forced himself to keep it under control. "You want to take him to Mental Health, drug him up like they did the last time, until he really is crazy, and then you're going to stuff him away in a room for the rest of his life, or until the Air Force forgets about him. I'm here to tell you, I won't let that happen."
"Are you saying you would stand in the way of him getting medical treatment if he needs it?" Doctor Sebastian challenged.
"He doesn't need it," Jack reminded her, leaning across the table to accentuate his point.
"Is that your professional opinion?" she asked, hardly able to mask her dislike of the man.
"Yes, Doctor. It is," Jack hissed, narrowing his dark eyes to her.
Doctor Sebastian stood up, tossed the files into her attaché, and looked at Janet. "I don't have time for this, Janet. Have Doctor Jackson at my office at 1800 hours on Wednesday."
"I will, Doctor Sebastian," Janet said. "Thank you."
"I can tell you right now he doesn't want to talk to you," Jack said.
Doctor Sebastian ignored Jack and turned to General Hammond. "Sir, after I talk with Doctor Jackson, I'll report back to you what I believe-"
"General…" Jack interrupted, holding out a hand.
"-what I believe Doctor Jackson's treatment options to be," Doctor Sebastian said, and without so much as wavering an inch from her icy decorum, she turned to Jack, impaling him with her glare. "And so help me, Colonel O'Neill, if you get in the way of Doctor Jackson's treatments, I'll have you up on charges, sir."
"Will ya now?" Jack answered back.
"Oh, yes, sir. Count on it, Colonel."
For the first time in his Air Force career, Jack felt he had actually met his match in steely intractability.
"Thank you, Doctor," General Hammond said, using his voice like a crowbar between the two.
Janet stood up and said, "I'll see you out, Doctor."
Doctor Sebastian never acknowledged Jack after that, but Jack did wave brightly to her while she left.
"Nice woman," Jack said.
"Dammit, Jack…"
"Look, General, I'm not going to let this happen."
"You don't have a choice, Jack," the general said. "And I'd strongly advise you not to consider anything rash where Daniel Jackson is concerned."
"But, General…"
"Do I make myself clear, Colonel?"
"Yes, sir."
"Fine. Now, you'll excuse me while I go run this base," he said.
"Yes, sir," Jack said.
SG1SG1SG1SG1SG1SG1SG1SG1
General Hammond signed the final document for the night and closed the folder on a very long day. He stepped out from behind his desk and peered into the briefing room—dark and empty. A brief few hours of reprieve before the cares of the universe crowded the room again. A few brief hours of silence.
General Hammond liked to visit his people at night, that way he didn't need to feel rushed to get back to his office, nor was there much gate activity to patrol. Rarely did he approve a night launch—didn't seem like there was any point to that, what, with planets on the dark side of the sun, or planets being in different solar systems, for that matter. What was day on Earth might be night on FL5-971, and vice versa. Why have his people lose sleep over the time change, time being relative and all?
Still there were those few times when other planets sent visitors to the SGC during the quiet of the night—night also being relative and all inside a mountain. It was during those times that General Hammond's Southern rules of decorum came rushing to the surface. What he often considered doing was sending out a widespread message throughout the universe—"Please respect our time. It's just rude to call on a person after 2100, people. Sincerely, General George Hammond, USAF."
Of course, he never did it. That in itself would be rude and probably a little on the high falutin' side, as his wife used to say. Being a soft-spoken Southern gentleman at heart, he'd rather graciously accept a visitor at 0200 rather than be thought of as high-falutin'.
Still, nights were quiet at the SGC. Most of the civilian contractors had headed home hours earlier, and the military personnel comprised only those necessary to keep the base on alert, protected and on guard. The rest were in their quarters or in the mess, playing cards or watching TV.
So it was the hushed hours of the evening that General Hammond chose when he wanted to visit one or two of his people in the infirmary, and the only person on his list was one Daniel Jackson.
From the moment he stepped into the dimly lit room, the general knew what the concern for the young man was all about.
Sitting in the middle of his bed, his knees drawn up, his arms propped on them, Daniel held his head in his hands and was crying.
General Hammond came to a dead halt just inside the room. Thirty-five years in the Air Force—Vietnam, Beirut, Iraq—had taught him that if a man was crying in a military environment, there had to be a good reason. He cleared his throat, hoping not to startle Daniel.
Rather than startle him, Daniel didn't even look up. He kept a relentless focus on the end of his bed, pressed his long fingers into his skull, and wept—mutely, with only the choking hitches of breath to fill the silence.
"Doctor Jackson? Is there something I can do for you?" the general asked, stepping to the side of Daniel's bed. Thirty-five years in the Air Force had taught him that if a man was so upset that he couldn't acknowledge the presence of a ranking officer, that man was in pain.
Daniel clasped his fists together and pressed their union to his trembling lips. Tears, heavy with consuming fear, saturated his face. Still, he stared at nothing; at an enemy only his eyes could see. Could feel.
"Daniel, how can I help you?" General Hammond asked, keeping his tone hushed. He reached out and soothed Daniel's shaking back. Thirty-five years in the Air Force had taught him that if a man was so distraught he couldn't speak, that man was in trouble.
From the looks of things, General Hammond decided Daniel was in trouble. Trouble, dark and foreboding.
"You go ahead and cry," the general said, wrapping one arm around Daniel's back, the other stroking Daniel's sweaty hair. He gathered the young man to himself and comforted him. "You go right ahead. I just bet there's a whole world of hurt inside, so you go ahead and cry all you want."
Daniel stared without sight while his body vibrated with spastic breaths and tremulous, bone-deep horrific dread. He could not feel the gentle hand wiping away his tears, nor could he hear the lull of the sympathetic voice acknowledging his pain.
He knew only images—frightening and confusing. Images that were more real than the large arms consoling him. Images peppered with violence, buckshot full of terrifying faces and scratching, tearing hands. Images so corporeal that his skin burned as if slapped; his bones throbbed as if crushed; his body screamed as if being torn in two, fiber by fiber.
General Hammond stroked Daniel's fevered brow, rubbed his shuddering arm and whispered, "Cry all you need, Daniel. I've got no where to go."
So Daniel wept and wasn't aware of a single tear. He wept and heard his own far away screams become suddenly silent, molesting his ears and his mind.
Daniel wept and doggedly, mournfully, silently repeated his one word mantra:
Why?