AN: Hi, everyone. I accidentally left some text at the bottom of the last chapter (from an earlier draft) when I posted, which completely negated the tone I was going for. (Arrgh!) I fixed it not that many hours later, but I apologize for any confusion for those of you who read the chapter early on. It was supposed to end: "I didn't send the code. Daniel did."

I've also noticed some pretty egregious word errors in a previous chapter, which I've also fixed. As usual, too much to do and not enough sleep. Sorry for my carelessness. (Please, if you notice stuff like this, feel free to point it out!)

OK, on to the next chapter...

Chapter 6

It was not long after the last time Gahry had come, after the bastard had broken the fingers in Daniel's left hand for no other reason, as far as Daniel could tell, than that he could, that Daniel's screams of pain began to mix with screams of rage. He raged at Gahry and at the twin thugs, at Lioss, and at the whole planet of people who would let this happen. And he raged at the SGC for sending him in the first place when he'd told them the Polistians couldn't be trusted, and he raged at Sam and Teal'c for leaving him behind and Jack because, where the hell was he? He had no idea how long he'd been tortured in his dark box of a cell, but surely it had been many, many hours. Surely it had been long enough for someone to come. Were they just going to leave him here? Was this how he was going to die, wracked with convulsions, lying in his own waste, his only company a petty, sadistic dismal excuse for a human being?

He screamed until he had no voice, pounded the dirt with his good hand, kicked at the walls, his anger almost as white-hot as the pain that ran through him. And then the spasms started again, and his now hoarse, almost whispered cries turned to sobs as his muscles contracted and released to their own beat, the banging of his broken hand adding its own new, grotesque rhythm to the poison's dance.

Oh, God, why didn't anyone come?

Later, after the latest paroxysm had finally ended and Daniel lay exhausted and unmoving, curled fetally around his broken hand, he felt shame at breaking down, and more, for cursing his friends. He knew that, if they could, they would move heaven and earth to get to him. If they weren't there, it was because they couldn't be. Teal'c was badly wounded, Sam, god, Sam, could well be suffering the pain he was, if Janet hadn't found a way to help. And Jack. . . . Daniel thought again of the last moments he'd seen Jack, as Lioss's soldiers had tossed him, screaming and kicking, headfirst into the event horizon. Daniel knew from firsthand experience that that was not a good way to go through the Gate. Jack could be injured, or worse, and Daniel had lain there cursing his name.

And then another, horrible thought occurred to him, one that was almost worse than the torture he suffered. He thought again of Jack's last moments on the planet. When Daniel had seen that they were about to force Jack through the Gate, he realized that Teal'c or Sam must have already shouted for the iris to be closed. So he'd fumbled for his GDO and managed to send the code just seconds before Jack hit the event horizon. But he'd been shaking from pain, in a panic that he wouldn't be fast enough. Had he. . . ? Daniel tried hard now to remember the feeling of the GDO keypad under his fingers as he'd blindly entered the numbers. Had he entered the right ones? Had he. . . ? Oh, Jesus, what if he'd sent the wrong code?

What if he'd killed Jack?

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Jack awoke slowly, his brain still chasing the disturbing, disjointed images of his dreams. His head was pounding, and he wondered just how much he'd had to drink, and what the celebration had been about. He opened his eyes reluctantly, expecting bright sunlight to be shining through the Venetian blinds in his room, but instead saw the industrial-looking fluorescent lights of the infirmary.

And he remembered.

Jack forced himself to remain calm. They would have woken him if anything had happened. Both General Hammond and Janet had sworn that if the Polistians, or the Tok'ra, made contact, or if Carter's condition got any worse, they would wake him. If they hadn't come, he must not have been out too long. He raised his head carefully and squinted at the clock over the infirmary doors. No, that couldn't be right. He blinked and looked again.

Six hours? He'd slept for more than six hours? That meant it had been more than eight hours since the Polistians had abruptly shut down the Gate, starting the damn, torturous countdown. The Polistians must have contacted them again by now. Why the hell hadn't anyone woken him? He fought the urge to jump from the bed, remembering the last time he'd tried that, and slowly sat up and swung his legs over the side. He didn't want any more excuses for Fraiser or General Hammond to keep him to restricted duty, so he did a mental check before he got up.

No dizziness—good. Head was . . . well, yeah, still pounding, but no one had to know that. Scrapes and bruises—barely noticeable.

O.K., he was good to go.

He stood up, relieved to feel steady on his feet, and not seeing Janet, started for the phone. He needed to find out what had happened; he needed to know what the bastards wanted. He should have been there, dammit, as soon as the Gate started dialing. A strange sound stopped Jack's progress, and he turned back toward the drawn curtain around Carter's bed, just feet from the one he'd been sleeping in. There was the sound of shuffling papers, a curse, and a small sob, then more shuffling papers. Jack felt a stab of guilt seeing that no one was by the bed this time. Teal'c must be in his quarters trying to Kel'no'reem, and he himself had been sleeping away while Sam had been suffering. That wasn't right.

He walked back toward her bed and poked his head through the curtain. Sam sat, with the bed partially raised, a stack of paper on her lap, and several more floating to the floor. She had her eyes closed and was biting her lip and clutching the papers hard enough to pulp them. Tears streamed down her face.

"Carter?" he said, gently.

Her grimace of pain turned to a wince as she realized he was looking at her, and she took a deep breath, obviously trying to compose herself for his sake.

"It's O.K., Carter," he said. "This isn't the time to be strong. You don't have to pretend."

Sam opened her eyes slowly and looked at him. "It's bad, sir," she said. "Really bad."

He nodded. "I know."

"I tried Kel'no'reem," she added, "and I think it worked a little, but . . . I couldn't. . . ."

"Yeah," Jack acknowledged. "I think only Daniel. . . ." Then he stopped.

"Look," he said, "I just woke up and I need to find out. . . ."

"Nothing, sir. There's nothing yet," Sam interrupted him. "Janet just left to talk to the General."

Jack narrowed his eyes. That couldn't be right. Nothing? Nothing?

Sam saw his look and shook her head. "Nothing, sir. I'm sure of it."

Dammit to hell, Jack thought. Those stupid, evil bastards.

"And no Tok'ra," Jack said flatly.

"No, sir," Sam whispered, closing her eyes against what must have been another wave of pain, or maybe just sorrow that her father hadn't come.

"He'd be here if he could, Carter," he said.

Sam nodded, he eyes still closed. "Yes, sir."

Jack sighed and pulled up a chair. "So," he said, hoping to at least distract her a little, "what's all this?"

She opened her eyes again and gave a little sob. "Daniel's notes."

"On what?"

"Polistia."

Jack eyed the pile of papers filled with small type still clutched in her hands. There must have been a hundred pages there. He shook his head.

"We were only there twelve hours the first time, Carter."

"Yes, sir," Sam confirmed, an actual spark of interest in her eyes for the first time since they'd been back. "It's pretty amazing," she went on. "Daniel learned so much in just that meeting. And he figured it out, sir. I mean, the whole society. The military structure, the striving for glory. He saw it in their art, their questions, their clothes, the way some of the people reacted when Gahry and the others walked by. . . ."

Jack closed his eyes as the damn image flashed through his mind again: Daniel, eyes blazing, asking, "Isn't anyone else concerned that the Polistians are hiding something so basic, that they're lying to us?"

"Sir?" Carter asked, concern in her voice. "Are you all right?"

"Yeah," he said, and almost added out of habit, "peachy," but stopped himself. Carter didn't need sarcasm right now. "I'm fine, Carter. So, you learn anything else?"

The spark of interest turned to frustration and then to searing worry that matched the feeling in his gut. "No, sir. There's so much here, and I'm trying, I'm trying. . . . I mean, Daniel's all alone, and it hurts so much. I keep seeing him lying there, suffering, and I need to help and I think there must be something here. But I start to concentrate and then the pain. . . ."

As if the pain heard her words, Sam stopped and gasped and let out a strangled cry. The hand holding the papers jerked, and Jack caught the sheaf before it hit the ground and grabbed Sam's hand with his other. The next sound to leave her lips was almost a growl of anger and despair, and then she whispered something so quietly he almost didn't hear it. But he did.

"Please," she whispered. "Make it stop."

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Eight hours.

It had been eight hours without contact from Polistia.

Hammond looked up from the paperwork on his desk for perhaps the hundredth time to stare through the window at the now-silent Stargate. He had tried to keep Gate activity to the bare minimum, canceling nonessential off-world missions, notifying off-world teams to keep their contact to scheduled check-ins and emergencies, but it was just not possible to stop using the Gate altogether. Had the Polistians tried to contact them already and been unable to establish a wormhole because the Gate was active? Or was this just part of their game?

A short, sharp rap came on the door, and Hammond shook his head as if to physically clear it of its dismal thoughts and straightened up.

"Come," he said.

The endlessly competent base CMO entered, a file under her arm, a businesslike expression on her face that couldn't hide the strain around her mouth or the weariness in her eyes. Hammond knew her shift had ended hours ago and that she had been working ceaselessly since oh six hundred. He glanced at the clock on his wall to confirm what he already knew, that it was fast approaching twenty-hundred hours.

"Doctor," he said, "sit down. Any progress?"

Janet sat on the edge of the chair as if not wanting to take the time to make herself comfortable. "Yes and no, sir. We have a better idea of how the poison works, but I'm afraid we're no closer to finding a solution."

She paused, and Hammond nodded at her to continue.

"I'm afraid that one thing we can say for the Polistians is, they know what they are doing. The poison is a complicated cocktail of ingredients, most of which are designed to cause debilitating pain: "phantom" pain, like that an amputee feels, except in this case throughout the body; a sort of misfiring of the nerve endings that's not only extremely painful in itself but also causes a hypersensitivity to what would normally just minor pain, even the prick of a hypodermic needle; and severe abdominal cramping and muscle spasms, which, in combination with the other effects. . . ."

Janet trailed off, perhaps at a loss for words to describe the level of agony Hammond knew Major Carter—and most certainly Dr. Jackson—were suffering.

Janet took a deep breath and went on. "We have had some success using muscle relaxants in treating the muscle spasms and cramping. Unfortunately, we still aren't able to treat the pain directly, since our tests show that every known pain medication, after a short time, results in an increased activity of the cells of the various 'ingredients.' of the poison."

"Meaning?" Hammond asked, although he was pretty certain he understood the point.

"Meaning any treatment we choose may well make the pain worse, or cause an as yet unknown adverse reaction."

Hammond nodded tiredly. He'd visited Major Carter twice in the infirmary, and while each time she'd tried to put on a brave front for his benefit, she'd clearly been in almost unbearable pain. And the thought of Dr. Jackson suffering the same and worse, without the benefit of any medical intervention or even a friend at his side. . . .

"I'm afraid there's more, sir," Janet spoke up. "I hope I'm wrong about this, and I haven't informed Major Carter yet, but. . . .

Hammond took a deep breath and braced himself for worse news. "Yes, Doctor?"

"As you know, both Teal'c and Colonel O'Neill have reported that they were told on PX0-4593 that Dr. Jackson would die within three days if he did not receive the antidote. At first we assumed the greatest danger of death was the risk of shock, caused by the extreme pain. But we've since discovered that something else in the poison has actually slightly, and very quickly, altered Major Carter's body chemistry, and we suspect that she has developed a physical dependence on the whatever that substance is."

"Addiction," Hammond stated.

"Basically, sir, yes."

"And you fear that the withdrawal symptoms could be fatal?"

"I'm afraid it is a real possibility. While death is very rare in patients suffering from withdrawal on Earth, I've learned the hard way not to make assumptions based on Earth medical norms."

"So we need to get or create an antidote or find another solution in less than three days," Hammond stated.

"I don't think we have even that long, General. Our latest tests on Major Carter's bloodwork indicate that the poison is already dissipating. If we are right in our theory that death may occur when the poison leaves the body—and again, I hope we're wrong—either the Polistians were mistaken or lying about the length of time, or some other factor, perhaps the relatively small amount Sam ingested, has changed the timeline.

"How much time do we have then, Doctor? Do you have an estimate?"

"If we don't find a solution, General, Major Carter could die before morning."