Taken

Flashes

"You sure you don't want me to follow you back home?"

Jack hesitated for an instant before shaking his head. "No. We've done all there is to do tonight. Until someone calls with demands—" he turned towards Daniel and sighed more deeply. "Until then."

They sat in Daniel's car in the enormous Southern parking lot of the Pentagon. The General's SUV glinted next to them in the combined light from the moon and the ambient glow from surrounding buildings.

"We could still call the police."

"We've discussed this."

"Yes, Jack, we have, and you've shot down each idea I've tabled."

"Because it wouldn't do any good." O'Neill put his hand on the door handle, gripping it in tense fingers. "The cops would be more clueless than we are. We've already called the security office at the mall. There was no footage of anything suspect anywhere on the property."

"So you're just going to wait."

"I have a feeling it won't be for very long." Jack's lips thinned. "Whoever has her will want something sooner rather than later."

"And Miss Baldrich? If she's with Sam—"

"Sam will keep her alive. You know how good she is at that sort of thing."

Daniel nodded. After a bit he sighed. "I do know. But Sam also has other things on her mind just now."

"Daniel—don't remind me." Jack scowled. "If that weren't the case, she'd have had protection. She'd still be carrying that Glock I gave her for Christmas last year."

"Remind me again why she isn't?"

"Lead." The word seemed to explode forth. "Something about possible lead ingestion and harmful effects on development." His hand made a vague gesture towards his abdomen before falling to his lap. "Fetal development. At least that's what she said."

Daniel nodded once, then adjusted his glasses on his nose. "You don't sound too convinced."

But the only answer was the low rumble of a car passing behind them in the parking lot. They both watched through the rear view mirrors as the sedan made its way around a curve and towards another area in the huge sea of asphalt.

Daniel's voice emerged—gentle, prodding without malice. "Jack—are you upset about the baby?"

Again, the night fell in deep silence around them. The General shifted in his seat and finally, after a long period of thought, cleared his throat. "Not upset."

"What, then?"

"I don't know. I didn't think this would be an issue for us. And after Charlie—"

Daniel raised his chin and stared straight forward out into the night. Jack appreciated the silence, using it to gather himself. With his thumbnail, he picked at something on his pant leg—a snag in the fabric of his trousers. Picking at it didn't help.

If he was to be honest with himself, something he'd been trying to do more lately, he hadn't been strictly thrilled when the test had come up positive. Maybe it had to do with the fact that he was closing in on the end of his sixth decade with frightening speed. Perhaps it was the known commodity that was his life—he knew the horrors that existed around them, and was reluctant to bring an infant into this world. Could be that he'd just wanted to keep her to himself—as he hadn't been able to do for more than a decade.

Still, he'd asked himself many times why he couldn't just ease himself into the same cautious optimism that his wife was exuding.

Because she was happy—truly happy—about the baby. He recognized, with a stab of guilt, that she'd been tempering her own reactions in view of his reticence. And the fact that she hadn't once complained about the nearly omnipresent morning sickness had been telling—she'd always been willing to accept his comfort whenever else she'd been injured. His making of her second breakfast each morning had been his only attempt at acknowledging that something extraordinary was even happening.

The shopping trip today was to have been her first attempt at preparing for the impending arrival—she'd finally gotten to the point where she'd decided to do things on her own.

He knew that she'd borrowed some things from Vala. Already Sam's body had changed, thickening in places, become fuller, softer. She'd been almost painfully thin after her time on the Hammond—the worries of leadership had taken a toll on her—but he had made the mistake the other day of reminding her that she needed to button up her jeans, only to belatedly recall why she couldn't. He'd come home from the Pentagon that evening to find a huge bag of singularly odd clothing scattered across their bed.

Jack couldn't even say for certain how far along she was. Four months? Five? The thought rankled. He should know these things. Should want to know these things.

"After Charlie—what, Jack?"

The General closed his eyes against a surge of pain. "I just thought I wouldn't want another chance at it. Hoped I wouldn't get another chance at it. Since I did so well the first time."

"For what it's worth, I think you're going to be a great father." Daniel looked sideways at the other man, his expression kind, sincere. "You're great with my Ava and Zoe. And you've always been the one most able to relate to kids we've come across."

"Some would say that's because I am a child, Daniel."

"We both know that's not true." Daniel reached across the center console and poked Jack in the arm. "You're going to be fine."

"And what if she isn't?" This was the fear—the dread. "What if she doesn't survive? Or if the baby doesn't? And I've never said—" He couldn't even finish the thought—his throat had constricted.

"We'll find her." This from a man who had seen too much in his life for such simple optimism to hold sway. How Daniel managed to maintain that kind of faith, Jack couldn't imagine. But still, it was the archaeologist turned curator that said, "We will."

But Jack didn't have anything else to say—couldn't muster up a trite phrase in response. So he reached out and pulled the handle the door and let himself out. Unfolding himself from the leather seat, he tossed a brief wave backwards and walked towards his SUV, digging his keys out with a hand that was shaking.

----OOOOOOO----

By midnight, the DC and surrounding area traffic had settled from its normal frenetic pace into one of more calm, intentional hurry.

At midnight, Jack pulled into the rear parking structure of his brownstone.

As of midnight, Sam and Glinda had been missing for more than eleven hours.

That last part, he tried not to think about.

Ascending the few steps to the back door of his house, Jack inserted a key into the lock and turned it, only to find it was already unlatched. He glanced backwards to where his car sat, in the double parking space, to find that he'd been right—it had been empty when he'd arrived. Reaching around to the back of his belt, he unsnapped the holster there and withdrew his Beretta. With his thumb, he flipped the safety off, and slowly, as quietly as possible, chambered a round.

The hinges didn't squeak as he pushed the door open. He slid inside sideways, then closed it behind him, intent on stealth—not wanting outside lights to give him away. The back hallway stretched before him, shadowed, silent. To his immediate right, a narrow arch led into the kitchen, and further down, a larger archway opened into the dining room. To the left, twin sliding doors obscured the laundry closet, and a long row of built-in cupboards marched along the wall mid-way down to where the main entry spread out towards double front doors surrounded on all sides by thick panels of decorative stained glass. Directly to the left of the front doors, a staircase opened, then curved upward and around, so that from the doorway, the banister framed the hallway and entry. A door at the base of the stairs hid a full bath, and another, a guest bedroom. The largest of three arches on the right side framed the way into the main living room, which was also accessible through the dining room.

Holding the Beretta in both hands and pointed downward, Jack took a cursory look around the kitchen before creeping down the hall towards the dining room, which proved similarly vacant. Pausing in the hall outside the living room, he listened in the stillness for a tell—any sign of who had entered his home, but the air lay flat, and heavy, and nothing disturbed the almost crypt-like quiet.

His foot hit a loose board in the reclaimed wood flooring, and the resulting squeak seemed louder than a bullhorn. He flinched and then regrouped, rounding the corner into the living room with an expedience he'd forgotten he possessed. A large sofa ran along the wall, twin chairs flanked a dark wood table in front of the large bay window in the front of the house. On the far side sat an antique upright grand piano.

Atop its bench, his fingers skimming noiselessly along the ivory keys, sat a dark haired man, white shirt gleaming in the dim light, his jacket lying next to him on the padded seat.

"I have been waiting for your arrival, O'Neill." The man struck a discordant tone on the piano. Waiting a bit for the sound to dissipate, he then looked over his shoulder at where the General stood, the gun now raised, finger on the trigger. "I had worried that you would not come. I began to wonder where I would venture from here. How I would find you in a city seething with so many people."

"This is my house, Ba'al." His tone even, Jack reached down deep for control, when all he wanted to do was take the shot. "Where else would I go?"

"That it is. And you must answer me that question. I have been here for several hours, and you just now appear."

"I've been out."

"Yes." Nonchalantly, Ba'al rose, scooting back the bench with a movement of one foot. Rounding the seat, he turned to face the General, casually dropping his hands down into his finely tailored pockets. "Looking for your wife, I suppose."

"What do you know of it?"

"Oh—well. Less than you would imagine." Ba'al smiled, his beard making a dark swath across his shadowed face. "Although I'm sure that with me here, in your house, on your turf, so to speak, you must be convinced otherwise."

"If you're anywhere around, and my wife is missing—you can bet that I'm thinking you have something to do with it."

Ba'al tilted his head to one side, his eyes narrowed. "General O'Neill. So much has passed between us that I would like to consider us to be friends—"

Jack snorted. "Not a chance in Hell, Ba'al."

"All right then, if not friends, something—shall we say—less than enemies."

"If you have my wife, you know that's not possible."

Ignoring the weapon trained on him, Ba'al reached for and grabbed his suit coat. Throwing it over his shoulder, he reached into a pocket and withdrew a piece of paper. "The funny thing about it, General, is that Ba'al might have your wife. I just don't happen to know it yet."

"What the hell's that supposed to mean?"

Another smile, this one rueful, flashed across the Goa'uld's features. "Surely you recall that I have not been—just myself lately?"

Jack groaned. The barrel of his gun dropped slightly as he straightened. Resisting the urge to roll his eyes, he sighed. "Not quite alone, yet, are we? Still accompanied by your coven of clones?"

"I must admit it wasn't the best move. Cloning oneself causes more problems than it solves. I'm certain you can imagine the resulting chaos." Ba'al shrugged. "But then, I wasn't in charge at that point."

"Who was?"

"The First one."

"The real one."

White teeth flashed in a wide grin. "Make no mistake, General, we are all real." He turned, and, locating one of the twin Queen Anne chairs, moved towards it. "All of us are seemingly perfect copies of the First one, implanted with seemingly perfect copies of the First Goa'uld."

"Let me guess—something has gone wrong."

"Most of the clones are dead." Ba'al laid the paper on his lap, resting his forearms on the padded arms of the chair.

"Most?" Jack's eyes narrowed, the corner of his mouth tilting upwards. "That's a good start."

"A few of us survived. Some took refuge here on Earth, others found passage off this planet and established strongholds on others. Most have since been located by your people or by the Jaffa."

Jack cocked his head to one side, peering through the shadows at his intruder. "So the Ba'al that we de-snaked on that Tok'ra planet—"

Ba'al nodded, steepling his fingers near his chin. "He was the First. And he is, indeed, dead. We have long since dispensed with the rest of the numerics. All of the clones who remain consider themselves to be Ba'al, as do I."

"So all that's left are clones."

"Yes." Ba'al crossed an ankle over his knee, laying his jacket over the arm of the chair. "Although to say 'all' is something of a misnomer for the situation."

"Why? Are you the only one left?"

"Indeed not, General O'Neill."

Jack lowered his weapon to his side, his finger still firmly on the trigger mechanism. Stepping more fully into the living room, he moved around the couch, stopping at the coffee table directly in front of the Goa'uld. "How many of you are there?"

"That I know of?"

Jack opened his mouth to answer, but a ringing in his pocket stalled him. Lowering his free hand, he dug out his phone, flipping it open with his thumb and raising it to his ear, his eyes catching the patient acceptance in the Goa'uld's expression. He frowned. "What?"

"General O'Neill."

"Ba'al?" At O'Neill's answer, the Ba'al in his living room grinned and offered up another nonchalant shrug. Jack sighed, keeping one eye on the Goa'uld in his living room, and an ear on the one in his phone.

"The same."

"What do you want?"

"I should be asking you the same question." There was a smile in his voice—traces of that condescension that always rubbed Jack just exactly the wrong way. "After all, I have something that you want."

Jack's annoyance instantaneously became rage. Clenching his jaw against the urge to shout, he merely stood silent, listening.

"Are you interested in finding out more?"

"I'm interested in getting her back. And Miss Baldrich."

"Who?" The clone on the other end shifted, and something made a sharp, metallic sound.

"Miss Baldrich."

"Ah—the old woman." Again, the tone carried with it an almost sing-song tone. Mocking. "To tell you the truth I didn't pay much attention to her. She was never the—target—so to speak."

"She has nothing to do with this—I suggest that you let her go."

"Oh, I don't believe I shall." Evident within his tone, the gleeful way he was speaking, the Ba'al on the other end was enjoying himself. "After all, I shouldn't wish to give up any bargaining chip. There is something that I want entirely too much in exchange."

"And what would that be?"

"A device—you know the one, I am certain. My sources tell me that you have been informed that it has gone missing."

"The Telchak box."

A short pause echoed on the other end of the line as something shifted in the background. "You do know of it. It's always pleasant to discover that one's information is correct."

"Don't you have it already?" Jack watched as the Ba'al in his living room stood and rounded the chair, standing in front of the bay window, his hands clasped behind his back. "I mean—it's missing—you're on Earth. Those two events seem infinitely connectable."

"General." The word dripped across the connection. "Surely you know that there is more than one of me. Sadly, this is a fact that I have not yet been able to rectify."

"Tell you what—I'll find the other one, and put the two of you in a cage, and you can beat the crap out of each other. That there is some damn fine rectification." Jack struggled not to wince as Ba'al laughed. That particular sound made him fly back to a gravity device, and vials of liquid fire that burned all the way through a person. He fought to control his breathing before continuing. "And besides, what makes you think that I know where the other Ba'al is?"

"It only matters that you find him. He has the Telchak device. If you want to see your wife again, or the old woman, you will seek out the clone, and retrieve the box.

"And if I don't?"

"Oh, dear, General." Ba'al's human voice dropped low, and gravelly, hinting dangerously at the Goa'uld within. "I'm positive that you already know the consequence for failure."

His patience in short supply, Jack cut to the chase. "Where are you?"

"I will keep you informed. Suffice it to say that the women are alive. They are being held where it is clean, and warm, and they will not be harmed so long as I see progress."

"What kind of progress?"

"I will keep watch."

"How?"

"Do you still doubt? I am a God."

"Oh, for crying out loud." Jack's fingers tightened around the phone. He tamped down the desperation that he felt and issued what he hoped sounded like an order. "Give me more information. I want to talk to Sam."

"You must realize that is impossible."

"Why?"

"Find the clone, General O'Neill. Find the box." Now the voice radiated deadly seriousness. "Bring them to me, and we will exchange. Your women for my items. Do we have a deal?"

Jack's jaw clenched tight. Closing his eyes briefly, he ducked his head. "Apparently."

"Good." A squeak sounded in the background, as if the Ba'al on the phone had tilted forward in an office chair. "I knew you could be amenable. I look forward to an update as to your progress soon. I will call. Make sure you have your phone handy, yes?" And abruptly, the connection ended.

Jack turned the phone and stared at the little screen. The number had been blocked—no doubt bounced off so many towers that it would not be traceable. He snapped the little device shut and shoved it back into his pocket.

"Was that the other me?"

"Yeah." Jack glared at him in the darkness, searching out signs of anything useful in his countenance. "He says that you have what he wants."

"Ah, now. That is where he is wrong."

"So you don't have the Telchak device?"

Ba'al walked slowly forward, around the coffee table until he stood directly to the side of the General. He didn't look at him before he suddenly raised his hand, showing Jack what he held.

About the size of a postcard, the paper was covered with formulas. Equations ran roughshod over the surface like the writings of a maniac. Jack stared at it, then looked sideways at the Goa'uld. "What's that?"

"It is the means by which to take the Telchak device and create something better from it."

"Like what?"

Ba'al's lips curled upwards. "General. Please don't play the fool. Both you and I know that your idiot routine is nothing more than an act."

Jack's eyelids flickered. With a suddenness that surprised them both, his laden hand shot up and the muzzle of the Beretta pressed against the side of Goa'uld's neck, his finger tense on the trigger. "I have the shot, Ba'al. And I'm just about pissed enough to take it."

It was the clone's turn to flinch. Dark eyes suddenly flashed golden in the dark as he turned his head to look at the General. "Surely you realize that we cannot live indefinitely without assistance."

"You mean without a sarcophagus."

"We were created quickly, without the intent of perfection. Like the Kull warriors, our purpose was to act on behalf of the First one, and then to die when it came our time."

"So you're flawed."

"I would say more mortal than anything else."

"Come on, Ba'al." Jack lowered the gun. "Where is it? Your twin on the phone said that you had the box."

"I thought that I could get it." Ba'al shook his head. "I created an intermediary using the same methods in which I and my brothers were created. Once the outer shell was formed, I inserted a cloned symbiote."

"Another Ba'al, just within a different body?"

"Yes. Only this clone was more useful. I had secured a sample of his DNA, so the rest seemed to be fairly simple. He would be able to go places that I or the other clone could not." Ba'al scratched with the backs of his fingertips under his chin. "Only I didn't succeed quite as well as I'd hoped."

Jack glanced up at the ceiling, searching for inspiration. "Because he's double crossed you? He wants the device for himself so that he can be the most powerful Ba'al?"

"See?" The Goa'uld grinned again, his attempt at levity somewhat strained. "You are much more intelligent that you give yourself credit for being."

Jack glared at the other man while he ran through the information he'd gathered in his head. It only took a few moments for the light to dawn. "Dare I guess?"

"I don't know, O'Neill. Dare you?"

His sigh expressed more than he really wanted it to. "You're willing to help me get Sam back, but only if I help you get rid of the other clones."

Ba'al cocked his head to one side, a wry expression on his face. "With so many Ba'als around, General O'Neill," the Goa'uld's mouth relaxed into an easy semblance of a smile. "It is indeed fortunate that you possess the ability to juggle."