Chapter 7

What if he'd killed Jack?

The terror that possibility sent through Daniel had him up on his knees and trying to stand before he could even think about what he was doing. There must be some way to know, someone who must know. They must have been in contact with the SGC by now.

"Hey!" he tried to call. "Hey, I need to talk to someone!" but he could barely get the words through his throat, scraped dry as it was by his screams and a growing, desperate thirst. He forced himself to his feet and, hunched over like an old man, his injured hand held tightly to his body, he took a shaky step toward the door. "Hey!" he croaked again. There was no answer, and Daniel fell forward, going to his knees again and barely catching himself with his good hand before his face hit the floor. He shouted hoarsely as the violent movement jarred his broken fingers and shot flames through the rest of his body, and he took harsh, rasping breaths to try to control the pain, try and push it back.

Stupid, stupid, stupid, he cursed himself. Stupid for not knowing if he sent the right code. Stupid for trying to move. And stupid and for thinking that anyone here would tell him anything, for thinking that, even if someone came in response to his calls, whoever it was would do anything but hurt him more.

The thought had barely gone through his head when he heard the sound he'd come to both dread and hope for—dread for the greater pain and humiliation that always followed, hope for a bit of water and something, anything to distract him from the agony. The outer door swung open, there was a shouted order, and booted feet came stomping down the hall. Daniel, who was still bent over almost to the floor, pushed himself back and sat swaying on his knees, wondering if this time they would pass him by, slam open the door to some other cell.

But no. The footsteps stopped outside his door, and Gahry's voice—how he had come to despise that voice—snapped at the guard to open the door. Daniel shuffled back a foot on his knees as the door swung open. Gahry, who had changed from his ceremonial robes into the pale-blue pants and brass-buttoned tunic the Polistian bureaucrats favored, took a step into the room, wrinkled his nose as if in disgust and took a step back again. He looked to the pad and pencil on the floor and back at Daniel.

"Symbols," he said shortly. "What world have you given us?"

Daniel opened his mouth to speak, but he couldn't get any words out, making only a rasping sound.

Gahry rolled his eyes in annoyance and gestured to one of the thugs, who as always stood behind him, looking forward at some spot on the wall above Daniel's head. Thug One—Scarface, Daniel had decided some time ago, for the small scar above his right eyebrow—went to the bucket that Daniel knew was outside the door. Daniel listened to the sound of the cup being dipped in the water and kept himself very still, not wanting to beg and not wanting to do anything to cause Gahry to slam the door in his face before he could drink. His mouth was suddenly so dry, he found himself focusing on the burning pain and his pulsing, throbbing hand to keep himself from lurching toward the door and the wonderful, plinking sound of water dripping back from the cup into the bucket.

Scarface came into the cell and held the metal cup out to Daniel, and Daniel reached a shaking hand out to take it, but the thug let go too soon, and before Daniel could close his fingers, the cup dropped to the dirt floor, spilling its contents. At the sight Daniel almost lost the composure he was hanging onto by a thread. He looked up at Scarface in near panic and back down at the water that was rapidly sinking into the floor. It was all he could do to keep from putting his face down like a dog and lapping up the small bit still pooled there. The thug raised his hand and Daniel flinched, but the hand was raised palm out in a "wait" gesture, so Daniel waited as the man picked up the cup, walked past Gahry, who looked ready to stop him but kept his tongue, and again dipped the cup in the bucket. He brought the water back and this time held the cup to Daniel's lips, and Daniel drank, closing his eyes as he felt the cool liquid on his tongue, in his mouth, trickling down his raw throat. He drank the cup dry and would have licked the bottom if Scarface hadn't pulled the empty cup away. Daniel's eyes tracked the cup, and he almost asked for more, but he knew that would be useless.

"Thank you," he whispered instead to the man's back as the guard walked away. The guard hesitated almost imperceptibly but didn't respond and didn't turn around until he again took up his position next to his twin.

"The symbols!" Gahry spoke even more impatiently now, as if the brief delay had been an eternity.

Daniel looked up at him, trying to prepare himself for the blow he was certain was coming. "I told you," he rasped. "I can't tell you what I don't know."

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Major Kovachek sat alone at a table in the far corner of the commissary nursing a cold cup of coffee and studying his notes while he waited, along with everyone else, for the Polistians to make contact. He and his team had screwed up, and screwed up badly, and he was going to do everything in his power to make it right.

Too little, too late, a voice in his head taunted, and the SG-9 team leader shoved the notes aside in frustration and ran his hand through his short-cropped hair. How had a run-of-the-mill negotiations with a backwater planet turned into this nightmare? Yes, he'd listened to Jackson's warnings along with everyone else that the Polistians were not the simple, straight-forward people they pretended to be; he'd seen for himself some of the signs Jackson had pointed out—the surreptitious glances among the ministers, the nervous or hostile reactions on the street of some of the people, the overly militaristic artwork, the fascination with military technology they had no hope of obtaining. . . . And yet, when Hammond had asked his impressions before he'd approved the treaty, Kovachek had discounted all of it, reporting that while the Polistians were obviously putting on an act for their benefit and probably had visions of future military glory dancing in their heads, they were basically harmless. Kovachek shook his head in disgust at the memory. He had long prided himself in his ability to read people, had built a career around it, but here he had bungled so badly Sam Carter and Jackson could very well pay for it with their lives.

How had he not seen this coming?

And then there was Gilbert. What a disaster. The kid was green, yes, with only three diplomatic missions under his belt, but, still, Kovachek could not understand how his lieutenant could have screwed up so badly. The official line to off-worlders who questioned why whatever team they'd first met wasn't continuing negotiations was always the same: SG-9 was the team tasked with diplomacy. End of story. Yet Gilbert had taken it upon himself to let numerous Polistians know that SG-1 was "too important" for treaty negotiations, that they were the "first-line" team and, worse, that Carter and Jackson were geniuses in their fields, that the SGC could not do without them.

The young lieutenant had gone ghostly pale during the briefing when he'd realized the role he'd played in the fiasco, and Kovachek had sat by, as stunned as the rest of them, as Gilbert, his voice stuttering, had confessed to having—"in the spirit of friendship," God help him—volunteered what he'd considered harmless details about not only SG-1 but also the SGC. Kovachek had trained Gilbert himself, had been sure he'd understood the importance of "need to know" when it came to negotiating off-world, yet the boy, eager to please and apparently completely taken in by the Polistians' hospitality and constant flattery, had let his mouth run as if he were a five-year-old on speed.

Kovachek grimaced as he took another sip of stale coffee. It would be his job to talk to the Polistians, they'd all agreed, his job, as he saw it, to try to undo some of the damage he and his team had done. So now he went back to his notes, methodically straightening the papers he'd thrown aside, then turning to the last pages, which contained what little they knew about this man Lioss. Arrogant. Sadistic. Power-hungry. Delusional. Insane. These were some of the words that had been used to describe the self-styled ruler of the "Polistian Empire." He needed to get inside this man's head, understand what made him tick, find a strategy that would, if not produce the antidote and Jackson's release, at least keep him talking long enough for other help to arrive.

Engrossed in his thoughts, Kovachek almost didn't notice the sudden, stark change in the atmosphere, but there it was—a rise in tension in the air, an almost electric charge skittering among the dozen or so personnel scattered about the tables. All chatter stopped, except for one awkward, loud laugh that was abruptly cut off, and then there was dead silence marred only by the buzz of the refrigerator motors and the sporadic clanking of dishes in the late-night kitchen. Kovachek closed his eyes briefly and swallowed a sigh. He knew who he'd see when he looked up; only one man on base could have that effect on a room.

O'Neill.

The colonel, unaware or unconcerned about the silence that had fallen at his entrance, stood in the doorway, tension radiating from him in waves, and scanned the room, his eyes resting on Kovachek for a split second then moving on. Then he crossed the room, limping slightly, to the glass refrigerators, where he stood staring at the meager selection for long enough that Kovachek suspected he wasn't actually seeing the contents. Watching surreptitiously, like virtually everyone else in the commissary, the major couldn't help but notice that O'Neill looked like hell. And who could blame him, really? If it had been his team. . . . No, no, Kovachek wasn't going there, wasn't going to let that train of thought distract him, because of course, it could have been his team, probably would have been if Gilbert hadn't unintentionally made SG-1 a better target. Hell. It was probably a miracle O'Neill hadn't killed him yet.

During the briefing, as Gilbert had spilled his guts, Kovachek had turned toward O'Neill and seen such fury in the base 2IC's eyes that for a moment he'd actually feared for his lieutenant's life. But then O'Neill had turned those eyes on him, and he'd remembered that, above all, beyond the rumored special ops background and beyond the years of hard combat experience, O'Neill was a damn good officer, and he would never take his anger out on some green lieutenant. No, he would place the blame squarely where it belonged. So Kovachek had done his best to look back without flinching, taking in the accusation and accepting the responsibility. O'Neill had held his gaze, then nodded and turned back to the briefing. Message received: There'd be hell to pay later, but for now they had a job to do.

If they could.

Kovachek shook his head grimly and tried to pull himself together. Time was running short. From what he'd heard, if the Polistians didn't contact them soon, it would already be too late for Sam Carter, and who knew. . . .

The blaring of alarms startled him, almost causing him to knock his notes to the floor. O'Neill, who had pulled a sandwich from the refrigerator, dropped the plate with a clatter on the nearest table and headed for the door, even as the announcement came over the speakers—"Unscheduled off-world activation! Unscheduled off-world activation!" And then: "Colonel O'Neill, Major Kovachek, report to the control room immediately, report to the control room immediately."

Kovachek gathered up his papers and jumped up to follow the base 2IC out the door.

Showtime.

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"He thinks that . . . the society was advanced technologically and . . . militarily until something . . . happened more than two hundred . . . years . . . ago to force them backward. . . ."

Teal'c listened gravely as Major Carter tried to tell him what she had learned from Daniel Jackson's notes, her pained gasps interrupting her words with increasing frequency. Dr. Fraiser had been unable to explain why the pain seemed to be getting worse as the poison dissipated, although she theorized that it might be the first sign of the withdrawal symptoms, symptoms that she feared would lead, inexorably, to Major Carter's death.

Teal'c once again forced back the rage that threatened to overwhelm him at the sight of the suffering of his friend and the thought that such a brilliant life could be destroyed by such a cowardly act. Anger would not serve him now. Instead, he would attempt to follow Major Carter's lead. Despite her agony and the knowledge of her own impending death, she would not give up. Where another would despair, would give in to the temptation to do nothing but scream at the fates that put her here, she instead persevered, searching in the only way she could for answers that might save Daniel Jackson.

While Teal'c had no great hope that her search would be successful, he would help in any way he could, until he could himself act more directly to save the lives of his teammates. If Major Carter would not surrender, neither would he.

"He thinks they . . . lost a . . . war . . . against an alien race . . . a great war, and as . . . punishment the . . . aliens . . . stripped Polistia of all technology . . . forbade . . . them. . . ." Major Carter's eyes widened and she let out a shout that turned to a groan. Teal'c leaned forward and reached for her hand.

"Shall I summon Dr. Fraiser?" he asked softly.

The major bit her lip and shook her head, seeming to hold her breath for a moment, the said, "No, Teal'c . . . thank . . . you. I . . . want to continue. These aliens . . . forbade them to rebuild their ar . . . my. Made it . . . law. . . . Maybe . . ."

The alarm announcing an unscheduled Gate activation sounded, and both Teal'c and Major Carter turned their heads toward the speaker, waiting. "Unscheduled off-world activation. Colonel O'Neill, Major Kovachek, report to the control room immediately, report to the control room immediately." Teal'c looked toward his friend, reluctant to leave her, but she squeezed his hand and said, simply, "Go." He nodded once and, ignoring his still healing injuries, headed at a run for the elevators.

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". . . Supreme Marshal of the Polistian Empire, and I will not be kept waiting. If you value the lives of your comrades so little. . . ." the arrogant voice was saying as Kovachek followed O'Neill into the control room. General Hammond was already in the room, watching the viewscreen silently, as was SG-9's second, Nillson. Kovachek nodded at the two men as he slipped past O'Neill and slid into the seat the Master Sergeant Harriman quickly vacated. He took a deep breath, shaking off an uncharacteristic flare of nerves at the task before him. He had been point man on many equally grave negotiations, but this was the first crisis he had had a hand in creating, and the responsibility weighed heavily. He noticed Teal'c come into the room, limping slightly. The gang's all here, Kovachek thought inanely as he reached for the mike.

He mouthed "Lioss?" to Nillson, and at the affirmative nod, waited for the Polistian to finish his sentence, then keyed the mike. "Marshal Lioss. This is Major Kovachek of the SGC." Short and to the point was the way to go here. No flattery, no niceties. Meet arrogance with arrogance.

"Major Kovachek? The lesser officer sent to negotiate the treaty? Where is General Hammond?"

"The General is unavailable, Marshal. I am responsible for this . . . communication." He said the last word deliberately, with the slightest hint of a sneer, as if the word negotiation was too good for what was about to occur.

There was a silence as Lioss stared directly into the camera, his eyes narrowed and his teeth clenched in anger. Then, as if realizing that they could see him, he relaxed his stance and shrugged nonchalantly and smiled. "Very well, Major Kovachek. Here are our demands. If we use incorrect terminology to refer to any of the items on our list, please forgive us. . . .

Lioss paused as he looked at his list, and Kovachek took the opportunity to interrupt. "Marshal Lioss, before we continue, we need both proof that Dr. Jackson is alive, and proof that you can help him if he is still suffering from the effects of your poison. Otherwise this discussion is pointless."

Again, Lioss seemed angered by Kovachek's tone, but yet again he forced himself to smile. "I am afraid Dr. Jackson is not available at the moment, and it would take hours to bring him here. If you would prefer to wait. . . ." His smile grew broader. "Oh, but perhaps you don't feel you have the time. My scientists tell me that your Major Carter did not ingest much of her drink and therefore may not have much time left. I hope that doesn't come as too much of a shock. Did I neglect to tell you? When our potion leaves the body, the subject dies."

Kovachek heard O'Neill give almost a growl, and he had to suppress his own urge to try to reach through the wormhole and choke the life out of the man, but he kept his voice steady, as if talking about the price of grain. "Yes, we are aware of the 'potion's' properties. Nevertheless, we must have the proof I spoke of."

Lioss tilted his head as if listening to someone at his side, then smiled in satisfaction at whatever it was he heard. "Again," he said, "Dr. Jackson is otherwise occupied at the moment—I understand he is a most stubborn man—and too far from here for us to offer proof that he still lives, too far for even his screams to carry. . . ." Bastard, Kovachek thought, glancing back at General Hammond, who clearly shared his feeling. ". . . But we can offer you proof of an antidote. We will send you a sample of the poison and a minuscule amount of the antidote, enough, my Minister of Science tells me, to show its effects on the sample, but not enough to reverse the damage done to Major Carter. We also have a 'voice recording'—is that what you people call it?—of your Dr. Jackson. It is several hours old, but I believe you will find it most . . . informative . . . as well.

"If these things are not enough," the man continued smugly, "then we are happy to execute the traitors and their families, keep Dr. Jackson with us for as long as we find him useful, and leave Major Carter to her fate."

Kovachek waited a beat, then glanced again back at Hammond, who nodded. He waited a full thirty seconds more, then responded, "We will listen to your demands, but before we consider acting on any of them, we will still need to hear directly from Dr. Jackson."

Lioss drew himself up then and stared icily into the MALP camera. "I am Marshal Lioss of the Polistian Empire. You do not make demands of me."

Insane, thought Kovachek, remembering O'Neill's pointed description in the briefing. Delusional.

"Here are our demands," Lioss continued in the same tone of voice. "You will provide one thousand of your 'Goa'uld grenades,' one thousand of your explosive grenades, ten thousand of your automatic projectile weapons, and two hundred of what I believe you call 'nucloid' bombs, the ones, I suspect, that O'Neill wished to use to 'blow us into the next galaxy.' "

The men in the control room stared at the viewscreen with varying degrees of incredulity, and Kovachek found himself suddenly fighting a terrible urge to laugh at the utter absurdity of the demand. He opened his mouth to respond, closed it again, then took a long deep breath. Finally, after what was probably too long, he replied, evenly, "Is that all?"

Lioss, unaware—as Kovachek intended—that he was being mocked, said, simply, "For the time being, yes. Provide these things, and in return you will receive Dr. Jackson, still alive, and enough antidote for both your people."

Kovachek took another deep breath, hoping he was playing this right. "I will have to consult my superiors, and should they approve, it will take some time to gather the ordinance you have requested," he stated. Then forcing an almost bored quality into his voice, added, "Of course, if Major Carter dies in the meantime, they will be disinclined to comply with your demands."

"Ah, I see," Lioss responded, and seemed to be considering Kovachek's point. As before, he leaned his head and listened to a whispered voice, then nodded. "Very well, Major," he said into the MALP microphone, and Kovachek allowed himself to hope that they might at least get the antidote for Carter. "When we send through the other items we mentioned, we will send through an extra dose of the poison. If you wish to extend Major Carter's life, simply give her the extra dose, and she will likely survive for several more days. The pain of a second dose is far more severe than that of the first, but I am sure it is worth it for you to retain such a valuable asset."

As Lioss smiled his sadistic smile, Kovachek heard O'Neill curse in the background—"Son of a bitch!"—and felt Teal'c shift closer to the viewscreen. Wondering if Teal'c was about to grab the mike from him, Kovachek held up his hand to stop the Jaffa's forward motion and, swallowing his own disappointment and disgust, said, "I doubt your suggestion that we poison our own woman will go far in persuading my superiors of your good faith, Marshal."

"I believe there is an Earth expression that fits here, Major: 'Take it or leave it.' If you wish to receive the items I have mentioned, please open the barrier to your world, and I will have them sent through immediately. After that I will contact you again when I have deemed you have had sufficient time to talk to your 'superiors.' Do not attempt to contact us. . . . The items are coming through now." And with that the viewscreen went blank.

"Son of a bitch," O'Neill said again. Hammond, ignoring his 2IC, leaned over Kovachek and spoke into the mike for the Gateroom. "Stand ready, people," he ordered, and the extra Marines he'd had the foresight have standing by, aimed their weapons at the Gate. Hammond nodded to Walter, and Walter hit the button opening the iris. A moment later, a small metal box flew from the event horizon and landed with a clatter on the ramp, and the event horizon blinked out.

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Daniel braced himself for the blow he was sure was coming, and true to form, Gahry stepped forward, an enraged look on his face. Overcoming his apparent disgust at Daniel's state, he grabbed the front of Daniel's tee-shirt and pulled him half off the floor."You can't tell us?" Gahry shouted. "You can't? You will!" There was anger in his voice, but something else, too, maybe fear? What the hell did Gahry have to be afraid of? Daniel wondered. Lioss? Was he afraid of Lioss?

Gahry shoved Daniel backward, letting him fall, and stepped away, wiping his hand on his pants. He was breathing heavily and didn't say anything for several long seconds. Finally, through gritted teeth, he hissed, "Last chance. Give me the symbols, now."

Daniel, his body wracked with the new pain his hard fall to the floor brought, didn't bother to answer. He wondered if by 'last chance' Gahry meant he was going to kill him, and Daniel, worn down by his mental and physical agony, almost found himself wishing they would.

"Very well," Gahry said. He spun around and pushed past the twin thugs. "Do it," he said to them as he stomped down the hall.

Despite his wish of just a moment before, Daniel felt a shock of fear at Gahry's words. This was it? This was really how it was going to end? As the two men stepped into his cell, he wondered how they were going to do it. Would they break his neck? Slit his throat? Bash his head in?

Daniel, one more time, struggled to rise, to face his captors with some small shred of dignity. His heart was thudding painfully in his chest, and the air in the tiny, dark cell seemed suddenly too close and heavy to breathe.

"Please, God," he prayed silently, "just let it be quick."