Chapter 9

The two thugs stepped into the cell, filling it almost completely with their double bulk. Even if Daniel could have forced his exhausted, pain-wracked body to flee, there was nowhere to go, so he stayed where he was, swaying on his knees, holding his broken hand tightly to his side. The men loomed over him, eyeing him speculatively as if considering the best way to proceed, and Daniel wondered, not for the first time, if they were unable to speak or had been ordered not to. Then Thug Two put his hand on the hilt of the knife at his side and looked to his partner. Daniel also looked at the other man, hoping for some small sign of the humanity he'd shown him earlier, but Scarface hesitated for only a moment before shrugging nonchalantly and nodding, and Thug Two pulled the gleaming knife from its sheath.

Daniel's eyes widened at the sight and without thinking shuffled backward the scant six inches to the wall behind him. Not wanting to show them his fear, he tried to pull himself together, to stare stoically ahead and not to think how much more he was going to hurt when the knife sliced through skin and muscle, how the poison would send that new agony ripping through him before he died, but his gaze kept returning hypnotically to the evil-looking blade. Oh, god. With what felt like a Herculean effort, he forced his eyes from the weapon to face of the man who would kill him, but Thug Two had turned to watch Scarface leave the cell.

When the oversized guard turned back, he didn't return Daniel's stare; instead he looked up and down Daniel's body almost clinically, then he raised the knife, and Daniel, who had just decided he would not go without a fight, had time only to let out a small gasp of fear before the man reached for him and with quick surgical motions sliced again and again through Daniel's tee-shirt, so that it dropped to the floor in tatters. Daniel, whose heart was thudding so painfully in his chest he thought he would pass out, at first couldn't understand what had happened. Was he cut? Was it some kind of sick game the man was playing before he finished the job?

Then Thug Two sheathed the knife, squatted down and reached for Daniel's belt.

Daniel instinctively hit out with his good hand, striking the thug hard in the jaw, and the big man cursed and punched him in the side of the head, knocking him to the floor and onto his broken fingers. Daniel screamed as the pain rocketed through him, but still he forced himself to roll to the other wall. He started to push himself up, but the thug was on him already. He yanked Daniel up by his hair with one hand and pulled his fist back to strike again, and Daniel closed his eyes and braced himself for the blow, hoping that this might be the one to finally send him to unconsciousness. But the blow never came. Instead, there was only the hard slapping sound of skin hitting skin and a low grunt of annoyance.

Daniel, still held half off the ground by his hair, opened his eyes slowly and saw Thug Two's fist, mere inches away, clenched tightly in Scarface's hand. The muscles in both men's arms bulged and the hands shook as they struggled, then Thug Two blinked slowly and looked down at his fist and then at his hand in Daniel's hair, as if until that moment he'd had no idea what he'd been about to do. He relaxed his stance and Scarface let go of his fist, then reached for Daniel to lower him slowly to the ground as Thug Two released his hair. Except for that first curse when Daniel had struck out, neither man had said a word, and now the only sound was Daniel's ragged breathing punctuated by his soft moans and gasps as he lay trembling in the dirt. His broken hand and bruised and beaten body pulsed unbearably and the other pain swept through him in waves, as if he were diving in and out of a fiery surf. Even his thoughts ran white hot as they sped confusedly round and round. Rape? Were they going to rape him? Why? Out of simple cruelty? Or to try to break him, to make him give up other worlds of people to murder and torture? And what kind of men could be so businesslike about it, so bored? And why would Scarface stop Thug Two from. . . ?

His scattered thoughts were interrupted by a hand on his arm, and he opened eyes he hadn't realized he'd closed and turned his head to see Scarface staring at him intently. Once he had Daniel's attention, he held up a bundle before him. Daniel squinted at the bundle and saw that it was some kind of clothing, pants and a shirt. Then Scarface handed the bundle back to Thug Two and held up a bucket and a wet, soapy sponge that he'd obviously brought back into the cell with him and gestured toward Daniel's body.

It took a moment, and then Daniel let out a sound that was half a sob and half a laugh. Not rape then. Their orders were to clean him up and change his clothes, to . . . make him presentable? But for what? What possible reason could they have?

Daniel sucked in a deep breath when an explanation occurred to him. No, no, he thought, don't fool yourself, but still Daniel couldn't suppress a tiny glimmer of hope. Was Gahry's fear and anger because the minister had run out of time? Had his team finally come for him? Was he going home? Was. . . ?

But before he could finish the thought, he felt the sudden stab of pain in his chest that always proceeded the horrible convulsions. He let out a gasp and gritted his teeth as the first spasm hit him, this one in his gut, tightening and releasing with a force that caused his whole body to jump and almost leave the ground. As his arms and legs started to jerk, and his neck twisted his head almost to his shoulder and he started to scream his now almost-silent scream, he heard another curse, and a shouted order in a language his mind automatically categorized, even in his torment, as a dialect of the outer provinces. So, they can talk, was Daniel's last clear thought before he forgot everything but the pain.

Seconds, minutes, hours later, he didn't know, he felt hands on either side of his head holding it tight against the spasms, and then something touched his lips and a sour liquid was poured into his mouth. Unable to control the jerking of his body, he sputtered and almost choked, but the grip tightened on his head and more of the sour drink was poured down his throat. Still unable to process anything but his agony, he coughed and swallowed, and the hands released his head to let it bounce helplessly with the rest of him.

Then a strange thing began to happen. It started in his chest and moved slowly upward to his head and outward through his limbs to his hands and feet, until it reached even his broken fingers: Daniel started to go numb. Even as his body continued to jerk and jump, the pain became . . . submerged. Daniel wondered if maybe he was dying, if his body was shutting down nerve-ending by nerve-ending, but he found he couldn't care. For the first time since this whole horrible ordeal had begun, nothing hurt.

The last spasm finally shook him, and he lay still. His mind felt sluggish, as if he were thinking through cotton gauze, and he wasn't sure if it was another effect of whatever they'd given him or just because of his utter exhaustion. He sensed the two thugs were still there, watching him, but he didn't move or open his eyes. If he moved it might all come back, all the pain, so he lay still and let himself begin to drift into that netherworld between sleeping and waking. Then their hands were on him again, pulling the scraps of his tee-shirt from around him, and yanking at his belt. His eyes popped open and he shook his head, holding his hand out to stop them. They might not mean him harm, but he couldn't bear the thought of being undressed by these men. "Let me!" he rasped, but Thug Two simply knocked his hand away as Scarface continued to pull at his filthy clothes. The men worked quickly, sometimes glancing up nervously toward the door, and Daniel realized that his latest "episode" must have put them behind schedule. He sighed and lowered the hand he'd started to raise again to grab Scarface's arm. The pain might be gone for now, but he knew he couldn't fight in his state, not really, and how stupid would it be to risk more injury just to avoid a little humiliation? So he turned his head, closed his eyes and forced himself to relax as the men worked quickly to strip him, lifting and manipulating his body as if he were some floppy mannequin.

When he was naked, hopelessly exposed, Thug Two shook his shoulder and motioned for Daniel to stand. Daniel pushed himself up shakily to a sitting position, and the two men pulled him the rest of the way to his feet. They stepped away, leaving him swaying, and Scarface picked up a bucket—Daniel saw now that there were two buckets—and tossed its contents at Daniel. The water was an icy cold that Daniel could feel even through the numbness, and he staggered back at the shock of it, but it somehow felt, also, wonderful. Then Thug Two lifted the second bucket, walked around Daniel and poured the soapy water over his head and down his back. Some of the water dripped down his face, and Daniel caught it with his tongue, soap and all, sucking it into his sand-dry mouth. He jumped then froze when he felt something move against his stomach, and he saw that Scarface had picked up the wet sponge and begun to clean him. With no expression on his face, the big man wiped Daniel down, front and back, removing the layer of dirt and sh**. Daniel tried to remain expressionless as well, but he couldn't stop himself from flinching at each touch, even as he told himself that it was only degrading if he allowed it to be. Then both men were at his side, dressing him in the baggy pants and rough shirt, and some sort of slippers—when had they taken his boots?—as if he were a small child. Scarface was surprisingly gentle with his broken hand, even though he must have known he couldn't feel it, and for the second time Daniel felt moved to thank the man.

Scarface just nodded, not meeting his eyes, and Thug Two let out a sharp bark of a laugh, whether at his partner's embarrassment or his actions Daniel couldn't tell. And then they were out of the cell, walking quickly, Daniel stumbling to keep up, down the hallway toward the courtyard and outer gate, toward fresh air and, maybe, Daniel let himself hope again, release?

They walked out into a balmy night, and Daniel stumbled again, then stopped, savoring the feel of the breeze on his still-wet skin. He wasn't sure how long he'd been stuck in the tiny, airless cell, but it had felt like an eternity. Thug Two jerked his arm, none too gently, and Daniel started forward again for the outer gate and the Stargate that loomed above the prison's walls, barely a kilometer away. He allowed himself to imagine that his teammates were waiting for him there, all well and in one piece, that the iris had opened in time for Jack, that Teal'c's symbiote had healed him, that Janet had been able to help Sam.

He almost leaned forward with his thoughts, but wherever they were going, it was not the Stargate. They turned before they got to the outer gate and headed along the wall in the direction of another large building on the prison grounds. Daniel felt his hopes dim as they walked toward the entrance, but he reminded himself that the Polistians were overly fond of ceremony. Perhaps he would be handed off to an SGC representative inside the building?

Two uniformed guards stood unmoving on either side of the thick, ornate wooden door set in a windowless stone wall. When they approached, one of the guards reached over and swung open the door, and Daniel and his "escort" stepped into a small, dim, room, empty but for two large paintings depicting violent battlefield scenes. These were no images of men on horseback, swords drawn; rather they depicted men with what looked like laser weapons of some sort, with airships hovering overhead. Daniel squinted nearsightedly to look more closely, but Thug Two pushed him ahead of them, and they walked to a door on the far side of the room. Please, thought Daniel, let Jack be there, alive, and waiting with a dozen Marines. Scarface looked at Thug Two, who squared his shoulders then nodded, and Scarface knocked firmly on the door. A voice called, "In!" and the three men entered.

Even as the men at his side snapped to attention, Daniel felt his hopes plummet. No Jack, no Teal'c or Sam. No one at all from the SGC. Just. . . .

Lioss.

The man sat behind a large table in a throne-like plush red chair. There was nothing on the table but a goblet and a large book opened to what appeared to be a list. Great murals, clearly hundreds of years old, surrounded him on three walls showing more battle scenes, some with an obviously alien race of tall, skeletally thin humanoids with blue-gray skin. The room was brightly lit—unusual on Polistia, where an electricity-like energy source seemed available but rarely used—and otherwise without adornment but for a plain wooden chair set in the center of the room facing Lioss's "throne."

Lioss stared at Scarface and Thug Two coldly. He let a full minute pass and then another, before he finally spoke. "You're late," he said slowly, and the menace in his voice was unmistakable.

Scarface and Thug Two kept their eyes forward. Scarface, in his accented English, said, "Yes, sir, Supreme Marshal. We are late."

Lioss again said nothing, letting the silence stretch, and Daniel realized it was a deliberate tactic, and an effective one when combined with the coldness of the man's stare.

"When we are finished with this business," Lioss said when he deemed enough time had passed, "you will be punished for your transgression. Is that understood?"

"Yes, sir!" both men snapped out.

Lioss stared at the twin thugs for another long moment, then turned to Daniel. "And you. . . ." he started to say, with so much venom in his voice Daniel almost took a step backward. Lioss stopped and Daniel watched fascinated as the man's struggle for calm played out on his face until his muscles stretched themselves into a smile that was more terrifying than his anger.

He is truly insane, Daniel thought. And then, with dismal finality, And I'm never going home.

"And you," Lioss repeated in a tight but more even tone, "you have now become my problem. Gahry was an unimaginative fool—Was? Daniel thought, and he felt his bile rise. He felt no pity for the man, had in fact many times wished him dead, but to think he was killed for, for what? For not being an effective enough torturer. . . .? Daniel's mind reeled, and he had to force himself to concentrate on Lioss's words.

". . . but you, I think," the madman was saying, "need other methods of persuasion. Therefore, I have decided to remove your pain temporarily in order that you be able to think clearly and understand the consequences of your actions."

As Daniel contemplated those words, Lioss stood up suddenly, turned and started walking to a plain wooden door on the side of the large room below one of the murals. Without looking back, he said, "Bring him," and threw open the door and walked through.

Scarface and Thug Two, who still stood at his side, took him by either arm and propelled him toward the door, neither man looking him in the face. Daniel tripped and fell, and they pulled him up till he found his feet, then kept moving quickly behind their commander. Through the door was a long, dim corridor with nothing on the walls or floor, only another door at the end. Lioss reached that door, swung it open and waited.

Not being able to see what lay beyond the door, Daniel unconsciously slowed his steps, but the men at his side pulled him relentlessly forward. He drew in a deep breath to try to keep the fear at bay, but it didn't help. He didn't know what Lioss had in mind, but he knew it had to be very, very bad.

When they reached the end of the corridor, Lioss stepped inside the room, and they followed. It was dark, darker than the hallway, and at first Daniel couldn't make out what he was seeing, could only smell an odor that made his stomach clench, the familiar stench of blood, sweat and fear. As his eyes adjusted, he made out four figures slumped against the wall to his left, their arms hanging above them in chains. Daniel's mouth, already painfully dry, went dryer.

"What...?" he started to ask in his hoarse whisper, but Lioss snapped, "I did not give you permission to speak." He nodded to Thug Two, who stepped around the door and turned up the flame on the gas lantern that hung on the wall. There was a moan from the direction of the chained prisoners, and Daniel looked over in time to see one of them, a middle-aged man, groan again and turn his head from the light. Daniel, however, could not look away. Instead he stared in horror at the sight before him. Four people hung, naked, from the chains, one an elderly woman and two a boy and a girl who couldn't have yet turned eighteen. They had all been beaten and whipped, blood still flowing freely from cuts on their arms, chests and legs, and all hung limply from their chains, their knees bent at awkward angles.

Daniel felt a surge of anger, and ignoring the earlier warning not to speak, turned and took a step toward Lioss. Thug Two and Scarface reached out for him, but Lioss, who was smiling again, shook his head and they dropped their arms.

"You sick son of a bitch!" Daniel rasped. "What could they possibly have done to deserve this? What. . . ?"

"Now, now, Dr. Jackson," Lioss interrupted, suddenly the gracious host. "All will be explained in good time. Please, have a seat." He gestured to a small square table in the middle of the room with a straight-backed wooden chair facing toward the prisoners. On the table was a pitcher and a glass.

Daniel gaped at him and didn't move, and Lioss this time nodded at his guards and they took him by the arms, steering him to the chair and pushing him into the seat. There was no gentleness from either man this time, not under the gaze of their commander.

"Please, have some water," Lioss said then, and, after a beat. "I assure you, it is water."

Daniel looked at the pitcher before him and unconsciously ran his sandpapery tongue over his lips. Water. He imagined the sweet taste in his mouth and had even started reaching for the container, but then he stopped himself. He turned his eyes to the four people hanging from their chains, who now themselves stared at the pitcher with looks of despair and longing, and he slowly put his good hand back in his lap.

"No," he said. He wouldn't be a party to their torture.

Lioss looked from Daniel to the tortured prisoners and smiled again as if he'd just won a bet. "I see," he said, smugly, "Well, that is your choice. Let us get right to business then. You asked what these people have done to deserve this treatment. That child there," he said, pointing to the girl, "joined a treasonous organization dedicated to overthrowing the rightful government of the Polistian Empire and had the greater audacity to publicly protest our preordained remilitarization policy. As is the law, she and her family must suffer the consequences."

Daniel closed his eyes. The girl had spoken out against Lioss. The others were accused of nothing other than being her relations. And for this, they had all been brutally tortured. He wondered, not for the first time, how the universe, Earth included, could produce such monsters.

"And why am I here?" Daniel asked wearily, his voice still little more than a whisper. He hadn't bothered to open his eyes, but he could hear the satisfaction in Lioss's voice as the man responded.

"You are here to save them, of course."

Daniel opened his eyes and looked at Lioss.

"Simply give us the information we have asked for, and they shall be released. Fail to give us the information and, of course, they shall be killed. I think your choice is clear, don't you, Dr. Jackson?"

When Daniel didn't answer, he went on: "We will start with one 'address,' to show your good faith. It must be a populated world with settlements nearby the Great Circle. Is that understood?"

Daniel opened his mouth to respond then closed it again.

"Is that understood?" This time the steel had returned to Lioss's voice.

"Yes," Daniel said. He understood only too well.

"Good then. Take some time. Get to know the traitors whose lives are now in your hands. I will return shortly for the symbols." Lioss gestured to Thug Two, who pulled Daniel's notebook and pen, now soiled from the filth of his cell, from a pocket of his vest and placed it on the table in front of Daniel. Lioss nodded again and pulled open the door, and the two thugs left the room, then Lioss followed, closing the door behind him. There was the sound of a lock sliding into place and then silence.

Daniel sat motionless for a moment with his eyes closed again, ignoring the slight rattling of the chains coming from the far wall. Since the beginning, even as he was tortured, his mind had furiously shuffled through the worlds he knew, trying to come up with one he could give them if it came to that, if he truly had no other choice. He knew he couldn't send these psychopaths to a world they could conquer, couldn't cause misery and death to countless others merely to save his own life, or even the lives of others. So where? He'd considered sending them to a Goa'uld planet, letting the Polistians see firsthand what they were facing out there, but then he'd be inviting the Goa'uld back to Polistia and its own thousands of innocents. He'd thought of sending them to a technologically advanced world where they would be quickly overcome, but even then he couldn't guarantee that there wouldn't be injuries or even deaths first, and the few such advanced races he knew, like the Tollan, were their allies, and he was honor-bound not to reveal their addresses. He'd thought of planets with toxic atmospheres, planets with no one there at all. . . .

What the hell was he going to do?

There was a moan and a cough and Daniel opened his eyes to find the miserably chained prisoners staring back at him. He realized, suddenly, that he was free to move about the room, and cursing his drug-clouded brain for causing him to wait so long, he picked up the pitcher to pour water into the glass. To his dismay, it was distressingly light, and sure enough, there was barely enough there for half a cup. Except for the old woman, who continued to look at Daniel, the family turned its eyes to the cool, clear stream as it filled the glass halfway and then trickled to a stop.

If he could have spared the tears, Daniel would have wept.

Still, it was something. He stood and held onto the table for a moment to steady himself, then picked up the glass and, trying to avoid looking at their naked, bruised and bloody bodies, he walked over to the wall where the they hung. His hand shook a little as he brought the water up to the lips of the elderly woman, and she sipped only a little before she said, weakly, "Give it to the children. Please give it to the children."

He hesitated, then took the glass and stepped to the girl, who stared at it with large brown eyes, then shook her head and looked away. Daniel's heart clenched as he realized she felt she didn't deserve even this kindness. What must she feel, he wondered, to have had her brave act of protest end in this horror for herself and her family? He raised his useless hand, still numb, and went to brush her cheek, and she flinched away as if afraid she was going to be struck. "Shhh," he said, then gently touched her bruised face and turned her head toward him. He raised the glass again, and this time she drank thirstily, two large gulps, before pulling her lips away.

"Thank you," she whispered.

Daniel only nodded, not trusting himself to speak, then turned and raised the glass to the lips of the boy, her brother he guessed, who hadn't once looked away from the glass. The teenager, young enough to have only the faintest shadow of a mustache on his upper lip, took his own long sip, and Daniel had to pull the glass back to make sure there was something left for the man he assumed was their father. The boy leaned forward toward the glass, then he shook his head and looked down as if in shame for his greed. "I'm sorry," he mumbled. Daniel smiled at him, or tried to, and shook his own head as if to say, "I understand." And of course, he did.

When he raised the glass to the father, who, unlike his son had a week's growth of black beard covering his battered face, the man looked at the small amount of water left and then at Daniel.

"And you, brother," he said hoarsely, lisping a little through newly broken teeth, "will you drink?"

"I'm fine," Daniel lied, trying to keep the gravel out of his own voice, but the man looked at him knowingly and took only one sip, leaving the rest in the glass.

"Drink," he said.

Daniel was deeply moved by the man's kindness even in the midst of his own suffering, but still, he thought about refusing, thought to offer the rest to the elderly woman who must surely need it more than he did. But he heard Jack's voice in his head admonishing him to do everything he could to stay alive till help came (Would help come? Were they coming for him?), and he was so, so desperately thirsty.

So he drank the tiny portion left in the glass, swirling it in his mouth as if he were sampling a fine wine before he swallowed. "Thank you, brother," he said, returning the man's salutation, for truly they were brothers in at least this, in their humanity.

Before he could say anything else, he heard the tread of booted feet in the corridor, and his eyes widened in alarm. The door swung open then with a crash, and Lioss strode back into the room.

Daniel, his heart in his throat, turned toward the door.. Oh, god, not yet! he thought. Not yet. His mind scrambled furiously for an answer, any address that might keep this kind family alive. It was impossible; there was no place that would do, no place. . . . Except. . . .

A planet finally occurred to Daniel, one that might at least delay the inevitable. When they returned, he could claim he didn't know. . . . Daniel knew it was a risk, knew it would probably fail, but this was it. He was out of time.

"Well?" Lioss asked, the cold stare back in his eyes. "Have you made your decision?"

Daniel stood motionless for another moment, took a deep breath and walked unsteadily back to the table. He paused again, then flipped open the journal to an empty page and started to write.