• SPOILERS : Children of the Gods; Emancipation; Broca Divide; First Commandment; 1969
• SUMMARY : Team building is never easy, even under the best of circumstances. The aftermath of the Broca Divide virus falls far short of that for SG-1. As Teal'c strives to understand the Tau'ri, Carter struggles with her own issues of trust. Daniel Jackson appears to be slowly unraveling and a secret from Jack's past will either make, or break, the fledgling team.
• PG-13 [A] [M] [D]

"Light thinks it travels faster than anything but it is wrong. No matter how fast light travels, it finds the darkness has always got there first, and is waiting for it." Terry Pratchett

* * * * *

Daniel Jackson was unaware he'd been lost in thought until Jack O'Neill plopped down on the ground beside him, startling him out of his reverie.

"So," Jack gave the rock wall a cursory review before turning around and settling leisurely against it, "everything okay?" With no more thought than he devoted to breathing, Jack laid his MP-5 across his raised knees, automatically pointing the weapon away from his companion and positioning himself to watch his teammate's back.

Daniel flinched as Jack squirmed, rubbing his shoulders against the wall behind him in an attempt to make himself comfortable. Resisting the urge to tell Jack he was going to damage the symbols carved into the rock, Daniel instead concentrated on the spot on the wall where his palm rested against the text he'd been transcribing.

"Daniel?"

Blinking at the symbols under his calloused fingers, he realized he hadn't answered Jack's question. Clearing his throat, he tightened his grip on his pencil, and continued the tedious transfer of the symbols into his notebook. "Yeah, everything's fine. Did Sam and Teal'c finish with the samples?" When there was no response, he looked up from his work to find Jack staring at him. "What?"

Jack silently studied him a moment before turning his gaze towards the camp SG-1 had occupied for the last two days. "Not yet. But, they should be done in a couple of hours. How much more time you going to need here?"

Sitting back on his heels, Daniel flexed his stiff shoulders and let his eyes drift over the panel of stone. It wasn't large, approximately five feet high by ten feet long, but the surface was covered with row after row of intricate engravings. It had obviously been carved by someone with a delicate and skilled hand. One of three similar walls located at the mouth of a large cavern, this was the smallest and yet the most complex. Unfortunately, a few minutes with the video camera had revealed the carvings were unsuitable for taping. So, he'd had to resort to old-fashioned transcription. Daniel had finished with the symbols on the other walls yesterday morning. This one was proving more problematic.

"Um, I could probably finish tonight if you can rig me up some lights."

"No."

He glanced over at the curt response. Jack had slipped his sunglasses in place, and was lazily scanning the horizon. Daniel saw him grimace slightly, a sign he'd learned to equate with one of two things: either Jack had a headache, or he was weighing his options. It was anyone's guess as to which of the two applied here. Maybe both.

"You're dead on your feet, Daniel, and your eyes look like little road maps, what with all those red, squiggly lines." Jack swatted at a buzzing insect. "I want you to wrap this up for the evening. Eat, get some sleep, and you can start fresh tomorrow."

"But, I-"

Jack raised a hand, and turned to look at him, his eyes hidden behind the dark lenses. "Decision's made."

Sighing, Daniel frowned and turned back to his task. Jack was right. He was tired. But, he needed to finish this. It could be . . . it *was* important. Glancing at where he'd left off, he was once again faced with the small, innocuous cluster of symbols which had set his heart and his thoughts racing. Biting his lip in concentration, he forced the pencil to the page and studiously traced what was written. Struggling to concentrate on form, not content.

Jack stretched out his right leg and absently adjusted the nylon holster strapped to his thigh. "So, amaze and impress me."

"Huh?"

Jack smirked, and toyed with something on the weapon balanced across his lap. "You mean to tell me you've studied these walls for two days, and you haven't discovered the secrets of the universe yet?"

"Well . . .," Daniel frowned and finished a perfect pencil reproduction of an ancient symbol before looking up at Jack. "Actually, no. I haven't."

There must have been something in his voice, because Jack pulled off the dark glasses and turned to stare at him. "But . . .," he prompted.

"But what?"

"Exactly."

Daniel forced a tired smile. "Word games, Jack?"

"Apparently." When Daniel didn't respond, Jack grimaced again. He slipped the glasses back in place and forced a smile of his own. "Okay, so no great revelations about the universe as a whole. Then, what *have* you learned?"

"Uh," Daniel glanced down at the pad of paper. His eyes drawn to a particular set of symbols, he cleared his throat uneasily. "There's a lot of it that I can't translate. It'll take some time, and will have to wait until I can get back to my lab."

"Meaning, there's some of it you can translate."

Daniel hesitated only slightly. "It tells of a god who dwelt in perpetual darkness. How, after one particular battle against his brother, the god of light, he retreated to this place in order to regain his strength and rebuild his forces."

"That's it?"

"Mostly." Daniel sighed softly.

"Daniel?"

"He . . .," his voice faltered; he covered it by coughing softly. "He arrived here with his queen. They ruled this world for two generations, using it as a base while they slowly gained power. He and his queen were cruel. Torturing at a whim; killing anyone who displeased them. They enslaved all who lived here." He forced a quiet laugh, and glanced at Jack. "Obviously, this was written after he left."

"Obviously," Jack agreed. "So, what aren't you telling me?"

"The god of light is Ra. His brother, the god of darkness, is Apophis." Daniel felt pain knife through him, a killing blade sinking back into a mortal wound which was still raw and oozing. "Which means his queen was . . ."

"Amaunet," Jack softly supplied. There was a pause as Jack continued to closely watch him. Then, with a soft exhale, his commanding officer turned away. "Crap."

* * * * *

Jack switched off the flashlight and stopped at the crest of the low, rolling hill. In the dark, shallow depression sprawled below him were the flickering campfire and the shifting silhouettes of his team. His senses attuned to the quiet, alien night around him, he watched as Teal'c wandered out of the circle of light, standing on the border of the camp, surveying the surrounding darkness.

Carter crawled inside a small two-man tent, and emerged a few moments later wearing her jacket and carrying a small case he knew housed a couple of electronic gadgets she'd been using each evening. The first night, he'd made the mistake of asking her what she was doing, not really expecting or caring about the long-winded, techno-babble answer she'd given. Basically, it boiled down to something about her inputting the data she'd gathered during the day in order to calibrate the . . . and that's where he'd tuned her out. Since then, he'd been more cautious with his questions, doing his best to couch them in terms meant to elicit a simple yes or no response. But, mostly, he just observed his scientists in silence, trying to limit his comments to sports analogies or direct orders. Daniel and Carter had their areas of expertise; he and Teal'c had their own. And, Jack was more than willing to leave the science to the scientists.

As he watched, Carter sat down across the fire from Daniel, opened the case, and said something to her companion. Daniel looked up at her, tossed something to her across the flames, and went back to preparing their dinner. Over the last day and a half, Daniel's boyish grin had dissolved into a tentative, humorless smile; his usual nerve-wrenching enthusiasm had tapered off into movements that were slow and half-hearted.

And, who could blame him? Confronting that wall, and its story of a false, evil god and his beautiful, evil queen . . . the parasite who now wore Sha're's face. Jack knew how it felt to be faced with the accusing stare of an absent loved one. Especially when the wounds were fresh and raw. There were few things more torturous, and he knew a thing or two about torture.

He glanced around at the dark, undulating horizon. He'd told Hammond they needed more time - a day at least. Hopefully, Daniel could finish up tomorrow, but Jack didn't want to rush him. He'd done his best to convey to Hammond the importance of this particular mission, especially to Daniel. Thankfully, Hammond had wholeheartedly agreed.

Sighing, Jack pressed a finger against his left temple. He had a headache; it lay buried beneath the small, jagged ridge of raised skin that was the only visible reminder of their slightly disastrous mission to the Land of Light. And that name - first used by Tuplo and later adopted by the members of SG-1 and SG-3 - was a misnomer of the highest order. At best, it was only half accurate, because P3X-797 had been a land of darkness as well. A lot of darkness.

Jack shivered against the chill night air, suddenly wishing he'd worn his jacket for the short walk to the Gate. Staring down at one-half of his team, he watched as sparks shot out of the campfire, startling Carter and making her jump. The embers drifted high up into the still air, followed by the soft strains of her laughter at herself. Daniel didn't move, except to look up as Teal'c reappeared out of the darkness.

Frowning, Jack broke squelch on his radio, and called out a hello to the camp. A few minutes later, he entered the small circle of light and sat down on a log that Teal'c had dragged close to the fire.

"Is everything okay, sir?"

He nodded at Carter, and accepted the MRE Daniel held out to him. "Yeah. Everything's fine. In fact, Hammond suggested we take a bit more time. Said there's no need to rush back." At Carter's puzzled look, he shrugged innocently. "Might as well take advantage, since we're here." Ducking her gaze, he looked down at his meal, studied it closely, then frowned over at Daniel.

The younger man frowned back at him. "What?"

"Beef enchiladas and refried beans?"

"Yeah, so?" Daniel looked as clueless as he sounded.

Jack grinned. "Oh, and look. It comes with vegetable crackers and jalapeno cheese spread." He shook his head. "Do you have a death wish, Daniel? Because honestly, if I eat this, you *will* die in your sleep. I guarantee it."

It took a moment and a giggle from Carter before Daniel's face registered comprehension. "Oh." He looked down at his own meal. "Mine's chicken with salsa and rice." Daniel grimaced, and looked over at Jack in apology. "And vegetable crackers with jalapeno cheese spread."

"Carter?"

"Sorry, Colonel. Cajun rice, beans and sausage."

"Crap. Who packed these things? Makepeace?"

Snorting softly, Teal'c grabbed Jack's MRE, replacing it with his own.

Jack held it up in the firelight, squinting at the writing. "Wow. Chicken with noodles." He was impressed, and he glanced over at the frowning Jaffa. "Teal'c, you sure about this?"

"Strategically, I believe it is the wisest course of action, O'Neill."

"Yeah," Jack sighed, and scooped out a spoonful of noodles. "Unfortunately for you, I'm pretty sure you're right."

They finished their meal in relative silence. A couple of times, Carter tried to hook Daniel into discussing the planet's ecosystem, but the archaeologist wasn't biting. Daniel sat with his head bent over his books, quietly scribbling. Sipping the last of his coffee, Jack watched him. As much as Daniel's usual hyperactivity annoyed him, its absence was worrying.

"Colonel, since Teal'c and I finished with the samples, I was wondering if it'd be possible for us to explore on the other side of the Gate tomorrow."

Setting his empty cup on the ground, Jack rubbed his eyes. "I don't think so, Captain. I thought Teal'c could give Daniel a hand while you and I check out the cavern."

Excitement and a smile brightened Carter's features. "That sounds interesting."

Jack glanced over at Teal'c. "I thought maybe you could help with the translations."

"I will attempt to do so." Teal'c looked over at Daniel, who was still immersed in his work. "Daniel Jackson, are the writings Goa'uld?"

When there was no response, Jack cleared his throat. "Daniel?" Jack filled the awkward silence by prodding Daniel with his boot. "Hey!"

"Huh?" His eyes red and unfocused, Daniel looked up, glancing at each of them in turn. "What?"

"Are the writings Goa'uld?" Teal'c repeated.

"Um," Daniel looked down at his notebook, frowning. "A derivative."

"Teal'c's going to give you a hand tomorrow while Carter and I go spelunking," Jack repeated for Daniel's benefit. "In the meantime," he groaned and got to his feet, "I'm turning in. Same watch as last night."

To soft murmurs of goodnight, Jack crawled into the tent, loosened his boots and his pants, and untucked his shirt. Half-dressed, he sprawled on top of the nearest sleeping bag, and was instantly asleep.

Oh-two-hundred seemed to come earlier than usual. Jack was awakened from a deep sleep by Carter gently nudging his foot. With a soft grunt, he sat up and ran a hand through his hair. He hated third watch - which was exactly why he almost always chose it.

Rolling a kink from his neck, Jack glanced over at the rounded sleeping bag nestled against the far side of the tent. Only Daniel's long hair was visible sticking out of the top of the bag. Having taken first watch, he was now in a deep sleep and was snoring softly. Unless Jack expected trouble, he tried to assign Daniel first watch whenever possible. First, because the guy was usually up anyway, scribbling whatever it was he was always scribbling into those journals he carted all over the galaxy. And secondly, because Jack thought it only fair that the military half of the team take the worst shifts. Despite the fact that Teal'c was a honed warrior, it was Jack and then Sam who led this group of misfits, who were ultimately responsible for getting the team home.

Yawning, Jack emerged from the tent then reached back inside, and snagged his rifle and his jacket. It was a clear night, and the air had a definite bite. Shrugging into his jacket, he stumbled to the log near the low-burning fire and sat down to tie his boots. Seeing him, Carter moved close to the fire, carrying her MP-5 in the crook of her arms and rubbing her hands together for warmth.

"Any problems?" Despite whispering, his voice sounded loud.

"No, sir. Although, I did discover something interesting."

Finished with his boots, Jack poured himself a cup of coffee and stood, his knees popping loudly. "Yeah? What's that?"

Carter smiled, her teeth gleaming in the dull glow of the fire. "Seems enchiladas and refried beans affect Jaffa the same way they do us."

Jack chuckled. "Well, I'll be damned." He sipped the hot, bitter drink. "In that case, why don't you bunk with Daniel? Snoring aside, he seems pretty harmless."

"It certainly beats the alternative." Suddenly looking tired, Carter headed for the tent Jack had just vacated. "Goodnight, sir."

"Night, Captain."

By the time he heard her slide into the sleeping bag, Jack had finished his coffee. Stoking the fire, he retrieved his MP-5, and slipped into the darkness. He quickly saw a man about a dog then tucked in his shirt and buckled his pants before proceeding to check their perimeter.

It was quiet here. Had been since their arrival. In fact, the only life signs they'd seen other than the local flora were a handful of birds, scores of fat little animals that resembled river otters, and the mosquito thingys which emerged during the afternoon hours - insects which seemed to savor the taste of Jack O'Neill to the exclusion of his teammates. The only evidence that sentient beings had ever resided here were the carvings which had absorbed Daniel for the last two days, and a tilted slab of smooth rock which the archeologist assured them was the remnant of an ancient dwelling.

Except for the distinct lack of a body of water, the place reminded Jack of his cabin - serene, peaceful, and not a single pesky fish or a damned Goa'uld in sight. Which were good things. But, the place had also been a wash as far as finding any technology was concerned. Jack still couldn't believe the President had sanctioned the SG teams evaluating the scientific and cultural values of each mission. If they were to have any hope of fighting the Goa'uld, it seemed a gigantic waste of time and manpower having a unit of Marines digging for artifacts and taking soil samples when they could be scouring the galaxy for weapons to fight the bastard snakeheads. He had to wonder who was lining whose pockets, and who was calling in political markers.

Of course, Daniel and Carter and the rest of the scientists had been ecstatic. Not that he blamed them. It was what they did, after all. As soon as Hammond had made the announcement regarding the change in policy, Daniel had been practically resonating with eagerness. Then, no sooner had they dealt with the caveman virus than Daniel's excitement had suddenly ebbed. Jack had a sneaking suspicion that worry for Sha're had quickly overshadowed Daniel's surge of joy at being given permission to play in a galactic sandbox.

Jack could relate. As much as he loved going through the Gate, and hunting down and killing the slimy snakes, there wasn't a day that went by he didn't think about Charlie. And, thoughts of Charlie inevitably led to thoughts of Sara. Sometimes, the thoughts were fleeting things - nothing more than a bittersweet memory of how Charlie had done this or said that. Other times, the memories were debilitating, rendering him basically useless for an entire day, or a series of days. They made him mean and moody - something he'd never been before Charlie's death, and his and Sara's divorce. But, grief was like that - it left you stunned and staggering and forever altered.

Daniel's wounds were still fresh while Jack's had had time to scab over. He was beginning to think they might even heal, given enough time. Eventually, he'd be able to let go, allow his misery to slip away from him; he'd relinquish the hold his son had over him, and take up his life and move on again. He was fairly certain. But, he wasn't ready yet. It was too soon. And so he encouraged the grief to linger. He regularly fed the heartache a diet of memories - some fond and some not. Sometimes, he spent whole evenings sitting on his couch, nursing multiple bottles of beer, and re-living the past.

Despite what he'd thought in the early days after Charlie's death, Jack had learned that grief was a process, not an inert state. Even when you thought you weren't moving on, you were. Pulled along in an inevitable current which led to your own grave. As long as you were breathing, you were living - poorly perhaps, but living nonetheless.

But, how did you grieve when there was no death? How did you move on when the person you ached for was still out there? Somewhere. Suffering. He could ask Sara, he supposed. For four months she'd endured the not knowing. She'd lived with the torture offered by one's own imagination as it filled in the gaps where a missing loved one had once stood.

That was the stagnant pool in which Daniel now drifted, and Jack wasn't sure how to rescue him. He wasn't even sure rescue was possible. He was afraid Daniel might have to crawl out on his own. So, he did the only thing he knew to do: he swore to Daniel they'd find her. And he meant it. As long as he drew breath and had the strength to fight, he wouldn't give up. Jack had made a vow to Daniel, to Sha're and Skaara, and to himself.

After witnessing Kawalsky's transformation, after seeing firsthand the incredible power a Goa'uld parasite held over its host, Jack had revised that promise. If he couldn't free Sha're or Skaara, then he'd hunt them down and kill them. But, one way or another, he'd do everything in his power to end their misery. And Daniel's.

And now, this place - this wall that held Daniel in its grip. Jack was pretty sure Daniel knew more than he was telling. But regardless, the man had spent the last day and a half reading about the vile creature who'd abducted his wife, raped her, and possessed her. Every man had a breaking point. He just wished he knew where Daniel's was.

Circling the quiet camp, Jack looked up into the darkness of the alien constellations, and he wondered if Sha're even still existed. Was there a part of her that was still *her*? Did even a piece of who she'd been dwell within that familiar, fleshy prison? Did she miss Daniel? Dream about him? And what of Skaara? Did a parasite cling to a small, silver souvenir? Did he clutch a Tau'ri lighter in his hand, and puzzle over the fascination it held?

He hoped not. Although he'd never say it out loud, especially to Daniel, deep down Jack hoped nothing of the host survived. When he'd been a prisoner of war, he'd endured by finding refuge inside his own head. Where do you go when your head is occupied by your captor?

Jack grimaced at the thought then turned toward the sound of muted voices coming from the camp. Hefting his rifle, he eased through the darkness, and hovered on the outer rim of the light thrown by the low-burning fire. A flashlight beam lit the interior of the tent shared by Carter and Daniel; he heard his captain's soft voice, then Daniel's. A moment later, Daniel emerged.

Rubbing his face with his hands, Daniel staggered to the log near the fire and sat down. Jack waited for him to don his glasses and pour himself a cup of coffee before approaching.

"Daniel? Something wrong?"

Slurping the scalding drink, Daniel shook his head. "It's nothing."

Jack sat down on the same log, his back to the fire, staring into the encompassing blackness. "Bad dream?"

There was a slight hesitation before Daniel mumbled, "Yeah."

And what could he say to that? Been there, done that? What wouldn't sound trite? "Sha're?" he simply said.

He saw Daniel look at him then turn back to the fire. "Yes. No. I - I'm not sure." Daniel took another drink of his coffee, holding the cup in both hands. "Can we just talk about something else?"

Jack started to ask 'about what,' then realized it didn't matter. Daniel just needed grounding; he needed to hang onto the sound of something solid. Squinting into the darkness, Jack smiled to himself. "Did you hear about SG-2's mission last week? About Ferretti's run-in with the local wildlife?"

"No."

"Apparently, the natives invited the boys to a banquet, and half of them ended up with a bad case of the runs. According to Casey, Ferretti decides he might as well get comfortable. So, he finds himself a nice log and proceeds to hang his lily white ass over the edge of it."

"I'm not sure I want to hear this."

"You do. Trust me. Anyway, just as Lou is getting comfortable, the boys in camp hear this tremendous noise, and Ferretti starts screaming like a woman. They grab their MP-5's and rush off to rescue him from an ambush. Instead, they find their esteemed leader with his pants down around his ankles trying to run in one direction, and some poor, frightened jackrabbit running the other way." Jack laughed softly. "Seems the harmless little bunny rabbit had made a nice home for himself in the hollow log. He's sitting there with the missus and the kids minding his own business, watching *The Simpsons*, when Ferretti sits his fat ass down on the roof, and destroys home sweet home."

Daniel smiled over at Jack. "Think he'll ever live it down?"

"Not if I can help it." His smile fading, Jack looked down at the weapon lying across his lap. His right hand wrapped around the grip, he glanced over at his companion. "We won't stop looking."

Daniel studied the contents of his cup. "I know."

"I know you do. It's just . . . I want you to know I meant what I said. About finding them."

"I know, Jack." Forcing a smile, Daniel looked up at Jack, met him eye to eye. "I know."

* * * * *

Every new post took time to fit, to feel as if you belonged and were part of the team. It was like breaking in a new pair of shoes – uncomfortable, but necessary. The SGC was no different in that regard, although there was absolutely nothing usual about this particular pair of shoes he'd been assigned to wear. The mere fact he was sitting in an office which theoretically didn't exist within the guts of a mountain was just the tip of the iceberg, or perhaps more appropriately, the id in the idiosyncrasy, considering the behaviors he'd observed thus far.

Doctor Stephen MacKenzie allowed his eyes to wander the barren walls of his office. He needed to bring in a few pictures and such to lessen the stark reality of this place. It wouldn't take much. Just a few splashes of carefully placed, framed tranquility for his patients to focus on. A couple of nice sceneries to lessen the anxiety and loosen the tongue. Accustomed to the clutter-free customs of military decor, less was more, and far more effective in relaxing the personnel of this base. He'd long ago come to grips with the fact that his office was doomed to be unadorned in comparison to those of his civilian colleagues. Just the thought of Jack O'Neill or Robert Makepeace stretched out on a couch as they willingly participated in psychoanalytic therapy was too ludicrous to imagine.

But, if anything, he was a pragmatic realist, and he'd served too long in the military himself not to become accustomed to the simplistic necessities of his surroundings. Even now, his mind dismissed thoughts of serene landscapes and turned to the file resting on his desk - Daniel Jackson's post mission report to P3X-797.

In the course of the years he'd served as staff psychiatrist at various bases all over the world, he'd had civilian personnel under his care before. It went with the territory, and actually, he rather enjoyed dealing with the occasional non-military neuroses. It was a nice change of pace from the typical PTSD and other various psychoses that went hand-in-hand with military psychiatry. But Jackson was an enigma.

His personnel file provided intriguing tidbits. Orphaned at a young age, raised within the foster care system, genius intelligence: Jackson was a statistic waiting to happen. The fact he'd somehow managed to earn not one, but multiple advanced degrees was astounding given his background. That he had single-handedly unlocked the Stargate and handed over the key to instantaneous space travel was inconceivable. MacKenzie's fingers drummed softly against the innocuous manila folder.

Was it any wonder he had chosen a military position over the more lucrative civilian market of his profession? Jackson had unintentionally provided him with the means to practice his craft under the most fascinating grounds in the history of mankind. For instance, the base's recent experience with regard to the Broca Divide, which Doctor Jackson correctly described as 19th century anthropologist Paul Broca's theory of divided intelligence in early mankind. He was familiar, of course, with the studies. After all, they were the foundation of modern craniometry. But, to actually have the opportunity to observe the effects on the personnel in the aftermath of the histaminolytic virus was nothing short of enthralling.

During the outbreak, he'd spent long hours conducting comprehensive interviews with those affected by the virus. Thank God he'd been on rounds at the Academy Hospital and not on base when Hammond locked down the mountain. And, while a small part of him had enough clinical curiosity to wish he'd had the opportunity to actually witness the effects of the virus firsthand, his practical nature bade him to be satisfied with viewing the aftermath and gleaning what information he could.

Most of the personnel appeared psychologically resilient, a fact he accredited to the careful selection process involved in being chosen for duty at the SGC. MacKenzie was proud of his own part in the development of the mental health assessments required. Obviously, the man hours involved in developing that process had been well spent because, despite the obvious mental trauma suffered, overall the staff had come through the ordeal relatively unscathed.

He opened the file, and began skimming the notes he'd made during his initial reading. It had been interesting - surprising, but interesting nonetheless to read Jackson's mission report. Hammond was expecting MacKenzie's final summarizations and recommendation, and he wanted to look over his notes a final time before writing his own report.

MacKenzie noted that on his first read-through days before, prior to conducting the interviews, he'd made a notation to follow-up on Doctor Jackson's reference to an attempted sexual attack on the native woman, Melosha, by the people referred to as 'The Touched.' Apparently, the young woman had been abducted by members of the Touched and taken to the area of the planet referred to as 'The Dark Side.' It was on this Dark Side where the Stargate was located, and where O'Neill and his team were attacked.

Jackson reported that after having been rescued by SG-3, SG-1 continued with the mission, at which time they observed a group of indigenous persons engaging in pre-mating rituals. While obviously excited with his findings, MacKenzie was surprised at Jackson's clinical perception of the attack. Flipping through the remainder of the report, he found no other mention of the incident. According to Jackson, the attack represented nothing more than a normal breeding method for ancient man. His curiosity aroused, MacKenzie began highlighting the pertinent facts. Jackson had gone on to cite several studies to credit his thoughts.

Perhaps it was because he so commonly dealt with the military mindset that MacKenzie was surprised by the clinically detached tone of this report from a man who, on the surface, seemed surprisingly compassionate. To date, he had operated under the apparent misconception that Jackson would require an inordinate amount of hand-holding. He had strongly questioned the logic of including him on any of the front-line teams, but on O'Neill's in particular, despite the men's history of the original Stargate mission.

MacKenzie had spent long hours pouring over O'Neill's personnel file. In his professional and personal opinion, a more cynical, battle-scarred man would have been difficult to find. Between failed missions, near fatal accidents, and personal tragedy, O'Neill was a mental bombshell waiting to explode. And, Daniel Jackson was the match that, in all likelihood, would be responsible for igniting the explosion. Placing two such diverse men on the same team, especially two men with the deep emotional scars these two carried, was nothing short of a catastrophe waiting to happen.

Jackson's report was intriguing. MacKenzie jotted down a few of the references. He'd read them in his spare time. The article in the *Journal of Consciousness* on discovering the mechanisms of consciousness in the brain by Antti Revonsu looked especially interesting.

Glancing through the file to assure himself he hadn't missed anything obvious, MacKenzie reached for the post mission reports of Colonel O'Neill, Captain Carter, and Teal'c. He was curious to see the attack from the various team members' points of view. His brow furrowed as he held the report prepared by Teal'c. The novelity had not worn off that he was actually holding a file prepared by an alien being. Mind-boggling.

MacKenzie was discovering the existence of other life, the knowledge of the Goa'uld, and the reality of travel to other planets hit him at the oddest times. He'd never enjoyed science fiction. Even as a child, thoughts of time travel in the pages of H.G. Wells failed to intrigue him. He was a man who found comfort in the ordinary. Most people, even his closest acquaintances and friends, would probably describe him as a man of routine, perhaps even a tad boring. He preferred to think of himself as well-grounded, and certainly not someone given to impulsiveness. He found comfort in order, in knowing what to expect. He enjoyed making the pieces fit, whether they be a jigsaw puzzle, his daily routine, or a psychotic mind. Analyzing with detachment had always been his strength.

That was why it was unsettling to suddenly catch himself staring up into the night sky as he held the car door for his wife. Oddly disturbing thoughts of 'what if' caught him off guard as he played a round of golf at the Club. His involvement in the Stargate program had opened a vast expanse of possibilities that refused to fit neatly into his mindset. And, reading a report penned by a being from another planet, one who carried a parasitic larva within his person, was troubling on many levels.

There was a calm detachment in Teal'c's report which spoke of a military background. His thoughts were clipped and to the point. This was obviously someone trained to distance himself from the emotions of the moment, and to focus on the overall mission at large. In fact, the lack of emotion was almost disturbing, even for a doctor such as himself trained in military expectations. It seemed to accentuate the difference between this man – this Jaffa – and human beings.

'We observed a native woman in the process of being taken forcibly by other less evolved beings. The sexual act was interrupted by persons later identified as the Untouched.'

Cold, callous, void of the most basics of human feeling.

MacKenzie was surprised by the icy shudder which crept up his spine. It was disturbing. He'd always prided himself on his ability to distance himself from his patients. Throughout his years of practice, he had been exposed to the worst the human mind had to offer. Schizophrenia, paranoia, heinous neuroses and psychoses, sadistic behaviors that would provide fodder for the most horrific nightmares. He had stared into the eyes of a serial killer, and found himself comfortable in his professional detachment.

Anger flared – at this alien who could break through his defenses, but also at himself for allowing it. Taking a deep breath, MacKenzie deliberately laid aside Teal'c's file, and picked up the report prepared by Captain Carter. Skimming the pages, he quickly located the passage. For the third time in a matter of minutes, the doctor realized he was surprised. This time, not by the lack of emotion, but by the obvious intensity thereof from a highly competent and professional Air Force officer.

'Rape.' The word was glaringly ugly - harsh - within the pages of the neatly typed report. MacKenzie leaned back in the swivel office chair, rocking with a soothing rhythm against the thick padding supporting his back. Rape. Not a term with which he was unfamiliar, of course. Even within the confines of his military background, he'd had occasion to deal with the baser side of men's psyches. And, on rarer occasions, the emotional aftermath amassed on the victim.

MacKenzie's eyes touched the covers of the other files. Doctor Jackson had referred to the attack as normal mating behavior. The alien, Teal'c, calmly described the woman as being 'taken.' And yet, Captain Carter used the word 'rape.'

That was perplexing. Were the captain's observations and choice of words merely a gender based description? As a woman, had she allowed her emotions to cloud the incident, or was there more to it? Had SG-1 witnessed an attempted rape, and if the report was correct, done nothing to stop it by Colonel O'Neill's orders?

Had he missed something during his interview with the captain? She gave the impression of an extremely intelligent officer completely dedicated to her career. One who knew the ropes in this man's Air Force, and wasn't about to let them tie her down. Her service record was impeccable. Top of her class at the Academy, exemplary services in the Gulf, an impressive list of credentials which led her to the Pentagon, and a plum research assignment working on the Stargate project.

In the few opportunities he'd had to talk with her, MacKenzie had found Captain Carter to be open to the need for a psychiatrist here at the SGC, unlike her commanding officer O'Neill, who made it abundantly clear he had no use for psychiatrists in general, and would rather have a trained chimpanzee on staff than MacKenzie or any of his colleagues. O'Neill had even gone so far as to make a comment during a staff meeting about Sigmund Fraud in the presence of General Hammond. There was no doubt the rest of the staff found it amusing. Oh, they maintained their professional masks, but MacKenzie could see it in their eyes, sense the amusement at his expense that hung in the air. O'Neill had publicly undercut his authority, and by doing so had made his job more difficult.

Sweep around your own door before you criticize mine, Colonel. Fraud comes in many sizes and paranoias. You may fool the others with that inane humor, but there are some of us who recognize what it's covering up. He thought back to his interview with O'Neill.

"Colonel."

"Doctor."

"I appreciate you coming in today." The eyes narrowed fractionally, and the smirk was far better than any lie detector. He knew before O'Neill had spoken that he'd drawn his favorite weapon of sarcasm.

"Oh, let me assure you, Doctor, the pleasure is all yours." O'Neill leaned back in the chair, rocking on two legs, controlled, relaxed, and in charge.

Well, that was about to change. There were going to be a few ground rules set in this office, and it was time the colonel realized it. "You seem to be completely recovered from the effects of the histaminolytic virus, Colonel O'Neill. I see that Doctor Fraiser injected you with massive doses of tranquilizers in an attempt to control you while you were affected. Have you experienced any side effects?"

"Nope, fine as frog's hair." He stared at the doctor evenly, clearly amused by his uncooperative display.

MacKenzie's jaw had clenched as he fought the urge to snap at O'Neill to lay off the juvenile behavior, get his act together and cooperate, and while he was at it, put all four legs of that damn chair down on the floor. But he didn't. He'd dealt with hard-asses like O'Neill before, and in his experience the tough-guy shell was covered with a myriad of cracks just waiting to shatter. Well, O'Neill wasn't the only one with a few tricks of the trade. Slowly, MacKenzie took off his glasses, and with deliberation, stared at the heavy file lying open before him, O'Neill's personnel record, brimming with all its dark little secrets. As long moments of thick silence filled the room, he turned the page, and allowed himself a moment to gloat. Remember, Colonel, you have no secrets from me. I know all about who and what you are. And, I'm in charge in these sessions.

Judging he'd made his point, MacKenzie re-established eye contact, confident he'd taken O'Neill's bravado down a peg or two, and he could now conduct a productive session. He was surprised when O'Neill's mask refused to shift. If anything, the air of belligerence had grown thicker as the cold brown eyes met his challenge. MacKenzie smiled, tapping the earpiece of his glasses on the file. "Interesting." O'Neill's eyes never wavered. It probably had something to do with the man's Special Forces training, but it was damn unnerving. Rather like a rabid dog ready to spring for your throat.

"I'm sure." O'Neill's voice was completely neutral. There was no inflection allowing the doctor admittance into his emotions.

"So," MacKenzie's mind raced as he maintained his own professional mask in this two-handed poker match, "no problems we need to discuss about the whole incident?"

"Not a thing." The chair shifted, the legs hit the ground, and it appeared O'Neill had decided the session was over. "Thanks for your time, Doctor. It's been real," he quipped as he stood.

"So, how does Doctor Jackson feel about serving under a commanding officer who attacked him publicly without provocation, Colonel? Things like that tend to have a dampening effect on team dynamics, don't they? But, of course, you're already aware of that, aren't you?" It was a challenge, a deliberate jab at a tender area where O'Neill was bound to feel guilty. He watched carefully, wanting to note O'Neill's reaction. There was an intercostal stretch of silence.

"Looks like you have a bad case of aphids, Doctor." O'Neill reached out, and plucked a shriveled leaf from the plant sitting on the edge of the desk. Slowly, he rolled the brittle leaf between his fingers, crushing it. Dried fragments rained down, littering the pages of the open personnel file in front of the doctor. There was a dangerous smile – taut, hard – which came nowhere near his eyes, and suddenly MacKenzie was grateful for the desk between them. "Or maybe you just have a bug up your ass."

He'd left without another word, and MacKenzie had sat there staring at the dead leaf.

MacKenzie looked at the plant: Clerodendrum thomsoniae, a Bleeding Heart. He'd brought it from his home, enjoying the splash of color the delicate flowers offered his mundane surroundings, and finding a bit of perverse amusement in the name as he spent his days attempting to uncover the psychological plug that would stop the proverbial bleeding hearts of his patients.

He hadn't seen O'Neill since the day of the aborted session. Clearly, he'd struck a nerve when he'd mentioned the colonel's team. That was something he could work with, provided he was careful. It was obvious routine techniques would be useless with the colonel. And, it was critical they develop a working relationship. Much of the staff looked to O'Neill for their own behavioral cues. If he had any hope of becoming a viable part of this staff and doing his job, then he had to bridge the gap and find a way to work around, if not with, Jack O'Neill.

Picking up the phone, MacKenzie took a deep breath.

* * * * *

Mackenzie's eyes roamed the spacious office. It seemed General Hammond had settled in quite nicely. Apparently, here at the SGC as elsewhere he'd served, generals' stars afforded the luxury of stately decor. Hammond's choices smacked of masculine practicality. Framed citations, a few nice pictures, memories from a lifetime in the service graced the walls. You could learn a lot from a man's desk, and Hammond's bespoke a hard-working, well-organized person. A framed picture of two young girls, smiling into the camera, took center place on the desk itself. Hammond's grandchildren, no doubt.

The door opened behind him, and Doctor MacKenzie partially rose to his feet, preparing to come to attention, when a voice stopped him. "Relax, Doctor, it's just me." Sinking back into his seat, MacKenzie nodded a greeting as Janet Fraiser breezed into the office, smiled and sat down in the chair next to him. "The general's not here yet?"

"Obviously not." He ignored her irritation at his brusque manners. He'd never been given to useless small talk. He had long ago learned people used it when covering up far more important issues. As he'd gotten older, his intolerance for chatter had bled into all aspects of his life. He'd made an effort to curb this tendency within his personal life after his wife had complained he didn't converse – he analyzed, and he was making their friends uncomfortable. However, here at work, he saw no reason to submit himself to petty statements, even at the expense of a colleague's ruffled feathers.

Janet's lips tightened into artificial cordiality. "Yes, isn't it?"

He'd never been disturbed by silence, never been one of those people who felt the need to fill it. MacKenzie was aware he had irritated Doctor Fraiser, and on some level, he supposed he should make an effort to conduct an intelligent conversation. After all, the woman hadn't been assigned to this base for long, and she had handled herself admirably in the recent crisis with the virus. Decision made, he turned to face her. "Have you noticed any physical carryovers from the virus in your patients?"

"None that were *obvious*," Janet snapped, emphasizing his own choice of words.

The corner of his mouth quirked as MacKenzie quickly hid his amusement. Janet Fraiser was one person he wasn't going to intimidate. He could respect that. There weren't too many people he couldn't manipulate should he choose to do so. "I apologize for my rudeness, Doctor Fraiser." He held out his hand.

For a long moment Janet stared, before visibly relaxing. "Accepted, Doctor." She shook the proffered hand with a smile.

He returned it with a nod and a controlled smile of his own. "Good. Thank you." He hesitated a moment. "Doctor, may I ask your professional opinion of Colonel O'Neill?"

The smile melted from her eyes. "In what regard, sir?"

"Well, I realize you haven't had long to form an opinion but . . ."

"No, Doctor MacKenzie, you're wrong," Janet interrupted firmly. "I have formed an opinion."

"And?"

"And, I find Colonel O'Neill to be one of the bravest, most unselfish men I've ever had the privilege of serving under."

MacKenzie frowned. "May I ask what you base your findings on, Doctor?"

"Personal observation." She hesitated before adding, "I'm sure you've read the reports, sir. But what Colonel O'Neill did went beyond the pages of a report. Far beyond."

Intrigued, MacKenzie nodded for her to continue.

"He begged me to experiment on him," Janet's voice broke, "to give everyone else a chance."

MacKenzie was suddenly aware his mouth had gone dry. "And, did you agree?"

Janet's eyes were hard, and tiny spots of color flamed her cheeks. "I did."

Thick silence once again blanketed the space between them. It was tossed aside as General Hammond entered the room. "At ease, please sit down," he ordered even as the doctors were rising. "I'm sorry I'm late, Doctors. The meeting with the engineers ran longer then I had anticipated."

"Of course, General. It was no problem. Doctor Fraiser has been enlightening me as to her opinion of one of your officers. I found it quite interesting."

Hammond frowned, clearly puzzled. "Care to share, Doctor? Just who are we talking about?"

Janet glared at MacKenzie before squaring her shoulders and speaking in a clear, firm voice. "Colonel O'Neill, sir. And, I was just telling Doctor MacKenzie that I feel the colonel is an exemplary officer."

"I'm glad to hear that, Doctor. I'm sure the colonel would appreciate your faith in him. Now, Doctor MacKenzie, on the phone you mentioned some irregularities in SG-1's reports?"

"Yes, General, one incident in particular which I read in the post mission reports for P3X-797."

"The Land of the Light?"

"Yes, sir. However, this particular incident occurred shortly after the team arrived, while they were still on the Dark Side." Hammond nodded for MacKenzie to continue. "It concerns the attack on the native girl, Melosha, by the people affected by the virus."

"The Touched," Janet interjected.

"Yes, but it isn't the Touched I'm concerned about. It's the inconsistencies I've found in SG-1's reporting of the incident. I feel as though there's more to this than any of the members are saying, and I'd like your permission to dig a bit deeper, sir."

"And, you really feel this is important, Doctor?"

"Yes, sir. It is. Nearly the entire personnel were affected to some degree by this virus, and the members of SG-1 in particular. As the flagship team of the SGC, I feel it's my duty to help the members maintain the highest psychological health." He gestured towards Janet. "Just as Doctor Fraiser is charged with their physical fitness."

"Fine, Doctor, if you feel SG-1 needs to meet with you, then by all means call them in."

"Well, sir, it isn't quite that easy. Colonel O'Neill . . ."

Hammond chuckled. "Enough said, Doctor. I understand. I'll make it an order. SG-1 will report to you upon their return."

* * * * *

His coffee had grown cold while he sat re-reading the reports for yet another time. MacKenzie grimaced, and forced himself to swallow the bitter liquid. Was his intuition correct? Was there more here than met the eye, or was he making a mountain out of a molehill? Doctor Jackson referred to normal mating habits of ancient man. Teal'c had stated the woman was taken. Captain Carter called it rape. But it was Colonel O'Neill's report which intrigued him, and plagued him with questions.

His fingers drummed a perplexing beat. There was so much more to this than could be found in the pages of these sterile reports. O'Neill's report was a red flag. Not because of the words he had chosen to report the attack. If he had learned one thing about Jack O'Neill, it was that any pertinent information you gathered from the colonel came not from what he said, but from what he didn't say. And, he wasn't saying a lot in this mission report.

What's going on, Colonel? You're hiding something important. Something your team needs to work through.

No, what bothered him wasn't what O'Neill had said about the attack, but the fact he had chosen not to mention it at all.

* * * * *

Samantha Carter stumbled painfully over a half-buried rock sticking up from the dirt floor of the cave. Her flashlight beam bobbled drunkenly, bouncing up and down the colonel's tall frame, and sending his shadow careening up the wall, over the ceiling, then down to the floor.

He glanced back at her, squinting against the bright light. "Captain?"

"I'm fine, sir." She steadied herself, wriggling her toes, and thanking God for thick boots. As the colonel turned away, she followed, heading once more towards the heart of the planet. She hoped Daniel and Teal'c were having more fun than she was, but somehow she doubted it. Her light focused on the colonel's feet, Sam gasped and quickly ducked as something brushed against her left cheek. Using the flashlight as a defensive weapon, she swept it through the air, and in the process saw the fragile tendrils of a spider web glistening in the yellow beam. The scientist in her took over, quieting the panic and swinging the beam in a wide arc as she searched for the web's builder. Maybe the day wouldn't be a bust after all; she could take a specimen back to Earth for study. Then she spied it, and gasped again. It was huge. A plate-sized arachnid perched in the darkness near the ceiling.

Okay, maybe she should re-think the specimen idea. First, she was pretty sure there wasn't a specimen bag in the world that could contain that thing, and second, the thought of toting that furry, scrabbling weight around in her pack just creeped her out.

"Holy crap," O'Neill muttered.

Looking over, she saw he'd halted and like her, was staring up at the spider. Directing his flashlight beam on the creature, O'Neill took a couple of steps closer, and the spider turned, keeping the enemy in its line of sight.

Sam swallowed a lump of fear. "Be careful."

The colonel lifted his flashlight, watching as the spider tucked its legs tighter to its body. "Look at the size of that thing."

"Yes, sir. I am."

O'Neill looked at her, and frowned. "Please tell me we're not going to have to try to catch that thing and take it home for you to study."

Sam laughed nervously. "No, sir. I don't think that's such a good idea."

"Good," he sighed. Then, looking back up at the alien spider, he shivered dramatically, which caused his flashlight to jerk and the arachnid to shift higher up towards the ceiling. "Geez, that thing is gross."

Suppressing a shudder of her own, Sam glanced at the spider, and thought about her CO. She envied him. His honesty, his bluntness about his fears. She wished she felt so free as to put those on display. Instead, finding herself once again the only girl on an all-boy team, she had to prove herself. Standing here, deep inside this alien planet, the degrees she'd struggled so hard and long to obtain were meaningless, as worthless as the onion skin paper on which they were written; their value diminished by the length of a galaxy. Here, everything she did came under scrutiny. She also wasn't unaware that more women than herself depended on her making – and maintaining – a good impression. And, while she didn't know him very well, she was pretty sure the colonel wouldn't tolerate having a squeamish sissy on his team.

"You like spiders, Captain?" He was watching her, totally oblivious to the threatening posture of the creature poised a few feet above his head.

Sam forced down her fear, pulled her eyes off what had to be the largest, ugliest arachnid she'd ever seen. "Not really, sir." It was the closest thing to pure honesty she could afford.

"Good," the colonel stated simply, then casually turned his back on her and the spider, strolling off into the darkness.

Once again glancing up at the leering creature, Sam sidled past it, then lengthened her stride, hanging close to the colonel's heels. It was no easy task to carefully watch the dark, uneven path leading deeper into the cavern while simultaneously keeping an eye out for more of the giant spiders.

Sam's mother had wanted her to be a doctor, a *real* doctor. Right now, she was kind of wishing she'd listened. If she had, she'd probably be sitting in a comfortable office somewhere puzzling over Mrs. Pfeister's lab results, instead of trying to keep up with a long-legged, short-tempered, cynical commander, and trying to figure out how they were going to get out of here without having to go past Charlotte's evil, big brother.

Still, to be honest, she had no regrets about her decision. And, spiders or not, she wouldn't trade this job for anything. Not even after the fiasco on Simarka. Simarka . . . it had been a long time since she'd been that afraid. Fighting Turghan to the death had been nothing. That she could handle; in battle, she had control. It was the moment when she'd realized Abu had kidnapped her to trade her to a harem that she'd found most terrifying.

She shivered again at the thought, and stared at the colonel's back. What if when he'd arrived, Turghan had been trying to rape her? What would he have done? Anything? Would he have waited for the most strategic moment to attack, even if it meant Sam herself would have suffered? The possibility hadn't even occurred to her at the time. But it did now – repeatedly. And, while one part of her wished she knew the answer, another part thought she was better off not knowing.

* * * * *

Daniel Jackson leaned back against the tree. Taking a drink of water to wash down the energy bar he'd had for lunch, he stared at the rock wall he'd just finished transcribing. He hadn't lied to Jack. There was a lot of it he couldn't translate. Too much of it that he could – the bits he could read only confirmed what kind of monsters had Sha're in their clutches. Which immediately brought to mind the horrifying nightmares with which he'd recently been plagued – fractured, violent images which refused to totally leave him even when awake.

"Daniel Jackson, are you finished with your translations?"

Frowning, he glanced up at Teal'c, who had seemingly appeared out of nowhere. While he knew Jack meant well leaving the Jaffa here to help him, Daniel had been so immersed in his work he'd essentially blocked out the man's presence.

"Oh, hi, Teal'c."

He thought he detected a slight smile before the large man took a seat a few feet away. "Are your translations complete?" he repeated.

"Uh, no." Daniel capped his canteen. "Far from it. I've finished transcribing the symbols, but the translations will take time. We can do that back at the base."

"Perhaps I may be of assistance at that time."

Daniel glanced over at his companion. "Yeah. Probably."

Teal'c cocked his head slightly in response.

"What?"

The Jaffa hesitated before speaking. "Do you not wish me to aid you?"

Daniel frowned. "Of course, I want your help." When Teal'c said nothing further, he felt the first tentative niggling of doubt. "Why wouldn't I?" As soon as he said it aloud, he wished he could take it back because he thought he knew the answer. He anticipated Teal'c's response even before the Jaffa opened his mouth to speak.

"It was I who chose your wife, Daniel Jackson. It is because of me that she is now Apophis's queen."

"Don't be ridiculous," he protested, but he looked away as he said it.

"It is true, is it not?"

Daniel tightened the lid on the canteen, then reached for the discarded energy bar wrapper. "Yeah, it's true. But, it's not like you had a choice." He folded the wrapper in half, then in fourths.

"In fact, I had many choices. We had taken several females from which I might have chosen an appropriate specimen."

*Specimen*? Daniel's fingers stilled, and he swallowed back the urge to vomit. "Host, Teal'c," he whispered. "Not . . . they weren't . . . specimens."

Teal'c nodded. "As you wish. The fact remains, it was I who chose Sha're as a potential host for Amaunet. It would be understandable for you to harbor ill feelings towards me."

"I don't harbor . . .," Daniel frowned, and resumed folding the wrapper. "You've already apologized, Teal'c. The matter's closed."

"If you wish."

"I do." Daniel tucked the wrapper in a pocket on his vest, and stood. "We should radio Jack and Sam. Let them know we're ready to head back."

* * * * *

He heard them following him – Captain Carter and Daniel Jackson. They had been walking for nearly an hour, and were over halfway to the Stargate. Captain Carter was speaking of the samples they had taken on the planet's surface, and of her trip with O'Neill into the cavern. With the exception of an alien spider, and a large room with a series of small caves branching off it, they had found nothing of significance during their sojourn into the depths of the planet. Daniel Jackson expressed little interest in Captain Carter's findings, offering only an occasional grunt and a random 'no kidding' out of mere politeness. Teal'c did not need to turn back and look at the archeologist to know the man was distracted.

O'Neill had appeared to notice it, too, throwing surreptitious glances at Daniel Jackson as the team had packed up their supplies. Upon his return from the cave, O'Neill had expressed a desire to 'hoof it,' explaining the phrase merely meant he wished to return to the SGC before darkness fell on the planet. A little over an hour after Daniel Jackson had radioed O'Neill and Captain Carter, SG-1 had begun the trek back to the Stargate.

Teal'c heard a break in the conversation, soon followed by familiar footsteps approaching him from behind. He was not surprised when O'Neill drew alongside him. They walked in tandem for nearly a quarter of a mile before O'Neill spoke.

"So, any idea what's up with Daniel?"

Wondering just how much of his suspicions regarding Daniel Jackson he should reveal, Teal'c merely stated, "I believe he is concerned about the fate of his wife."

"Yeah, well," O'Neill squinted off into the distance, "can't say I blame him. You?"

Teal'c thought of his own wife and son, and not for the first time he wondered what was to become of them because of his traitorous acts. "I do not."

"Well, maybe after he translates whatever that rock back there said, we'll be closer to figuring out where she's at."

Teal'c lowered his voice, not wishing to be the harbinger of bad news. "I do not believe that to be the case."

"Why?"

"The writings were several hundred years old."

"So?"

"If Apophis left this place for a world other than Chulak, I believe I would have heard of its existence. Besides, he would not have revealed his destination to anyone beforehand, certainly no one worthless enough to be left behind to write about it."

He saw O'Neill glance back at their teammates before looking over at him. "Did you tell Daniel that?"

"I did not."

"Good." O'Neill grimaced as if in disgust. "Don't, okay?"

Teal'c hesitated. "You wish me to lie to Daniel Jackson?"

"No. Yes. I . . . I just think Daniel's having a hard enough time as it is. No reason to make things worse."

Teal'c admired O'Neill. Enough that he had left everything he had ever known to follow him. In the short time he had known him, the human had proven himself a formidable warrior, a loyal friend, and a fierce and cunning opponent. But, sometimes, Teal'c wondered if perhaps his friend was not naive when it came to the Goa'uld. "If you find Sha're, what then, O'Neill?"

"When, not if. And, what do you mean, what then?"

"She is no longer the woman Daniel Jackson once knew. That woman is lost to him forever."

O'Neill's jaw tightened, and his voice hardened with resolve. "We won't stop looking."

"To what purpose?"

They walked ten paces before the man spoke again. "You ever been in love, Teal'c? Ever thought about getting married? Settling down and raising a family?"

Teal'c frowned, wondering where the question was leading. "Yes," he allowed.

"What was her name?"

He hesitated, hating falsehood, and disguising the truth in a half lie. "Shan'auc."

"For the sake of argument, let's say you married this . . . Chinook." O'Neill grinned at him. "Bet she was a looker, huh?" When Teal'c didn't respond, O'Neill nodded knowingly. "Yeah. So, let's just pretend Apophis sees Chinook and wants her for himself. Then, one day, you and the little woman are out on a pleasant picnic, a fishing trip maybe, and suddenly you find yourselves surrounded by a horde of Apophis's goons. You've got one weapon. One shot. What do you do?"

Teal'c drew himself up to his full height. "I would fight to the death."

"Ah," O'Neill nodded. "How very noble. But, think again. Apophis wants her. If you fight to the death, he gets what he wants." The human shifted his weapon from one hand to the other. "Once more, with feeling . . . one weapon, one shot. What do you do?"

Teal'c thought of Drey'auc, his beautiful wife. Anger surged through him at the thought of Apophis's hands on her silky skin. "I would kill her myself before I would allow him to have possession of her."

O'Neill smiled sadly. "I promised Daniel we wouldn't stop looking. I meant it," he added softly. Then, stretching out a hand, he patted Teal'c's arm before picking up the pace. "I've got point. Take our six."

* * * * *

Jack stared down at the burnished tabletop, lost in thought. Around him, the debrief continued. He was aware of Carter's eager voice being replaced by Daniel's less strident one. Occasionally, unable to withstand it, Carter would interject something into the archeologist's monologue. They were like a couple of kids, punctuating one another's observations. Young, fresh-faced, and naive. Compared to himself and Teal'c, they were refreshingly unburdened, despite the baggage they each must surely carry. Their exuberance was exhausting, and he couldn't decide if they made him feel younger or older than his years. Both perhaps, depending on the circumstances, and the day of the week. Glancing at Teal'c, he wondered how the Jaffa felt about them.

Calm, dark eyes met his, and Jack looked away. He liked Teal'c. The moment the regal first prime had grabbed Jack's wrist, had questioned his wristwatch, Jack had recognized the spark of independence for what it was. That tiny gesture exhibited free thinking that could not possibly co-exist with total subjugation. He'd immediately seen in Teal'c a glimmer of hope – hope for his team, and even for the slave himself. For more reasons than one, he was glad he'd been right.

Unbelievable as it might seem, Jack had grown up in a devout Catholic family. He'd been raised to believe in God, and in the sanctity of the Church. He remembered fondly Father Murphy, and Sisters Mary Catherine and Eugenie; he even remembered some of his Bible story lessons. He had a vague recollection of learning about the twelve disciples. And, while he could only name Matthew, Mark, Peter, and Judas, he did remember that when Jesus had called them, the men had supposedly left everything immediately, without question, to follow him. Until he'd met Teal'c, he'd always doubted that aspect of the story. Daily, by his mere presence here on Earth, Teal'c demonstrated the existence of unflinching faith and absolute loyalty.

Jack couldn't explain why he trusted Teal'c so completely. He only knew that from the moment of their meeting, his gut had told him he could trust this man with his life. More importantly, he could trust his team's life to the stoic Jaffa. No matter what anyone said, or who said it, Jack stood by his decision. He'd fought tooth and nail to get Teal'c on his team; he'd fight tooth and nail to keep him there.

Much like his fight for Daniel. Everyone thought the archeologist was a pushover. A weak link that would drag down the team, put them in danger. And, while he'd be the first to admit Daniel was known to jump the gun – rushing in blindly to lend aid when someone was in trouble – Jack had seen the man in action, and he knew for a fact there wasn't a cowardly bone in Daniel's body. The allergies, the glasses, the long hair, and the boyish face – those were mere sleight of hand. And, sometimes, it was sleight of hand alone which won the game. Besides, he owed Daniel. If it hadn't been for the man's terrier-like tenacity, Jack's bones, and the bones of many others, would be bleaching on the sands of Abydos.

Which brought him to the other member of his team: Samantha Carter. She was probably more alien to him than Teal'c – a girl, a *scientist*. He suppressed a shiver, and glanced over at her. She was raptly listening to Daniel. Feeling his gaze, she glanced over at him, and graced him with a tight smile.

Why did he get the feeling something between them had changed? That he'd missed something vital? Their first few missions had gone surprisingly well. Better than he'd expected. And, he'd been pleasantly surprised to find that Carter was first and foremost a captain in the USAF. But ever since the Land of Light, he'd sensed a tension between them. He supposed it could be embarrassment. That's why he'd tried to make a joke out of her 'assault' on him in the locker room. After all, it wasn't like any of them had been in control of themselves. Still, maybe he needed to have a little aside with her – reassure her he knew it'd been nothing.

He could use a little direction. Maybe he'd ask Fraiser's advice. She seemed nice enough. He certainly couldn't ask MacKenzie – the ass! 'So how does Doctor Jackson feel about serving under a commanding officer who attacked him publicly without provocation, Colonel? Things like that tend to have a dampening effect on team dynamics, don't they?'

Jack felt his veins constrict, his blood pressure rise; blood gushed loudly in his ears. Here he was trying to build a team – form a working unit out of an alien, an archeologist, and a scientist – and MacKenzie was already trying to drive a wedge between them, and rip them apart. Break them down into their individual parts. That man would touch his teammates over Jack's dead body.

"-for now, Colonel."

Jack flinched, and looked over at his commanding officer. "General?"

Hammond smiled. "Glad you could join us."

"Sorry, sir. I was . . . thinking."

"So I gathered." Hammond straightened the papers in front of him, and shoved them into a folder. "I said, SG-1 is on stand-down until further notice. I'd like Doctor Jackson and Teal'c to work on translating the symbols from M3C-271, and I'm sure Captain Carter is anxious to start working on the soil samples. In the meantime, Colonel, you owe me some reports, and Doctor MacKenzie has requested that each of you follow up with him as soon as possible."

With the exception of Teal'c, there was a chorus of protests.

Jack leaned forward. "With all due respect, General, you've got to be kidding me."

"I assure you, I'm not."

"Come on, the man is a quack."

Teal'c cocked his head and lifted an eyebrow, and Hammond frowned.

"Colonel, I'd remind you that Doctor MacKenzie is, like you, a member of this man's Air Force. Therefore, I'd advise you to afford him the respect due his position." Jack snorted, and opened his mouth to speak. Hammond held up a cautionary finger. "Mind what you say, son." He waited, letting silence settle around them. "Now, I want you all to report to the infirmary for your post mission exams, and then, beginning at oh-nine-hundred tomorrow morning, SG-1 will report to Doctor MacKenzie. I'll let you pick amongst yourselves who goes first."

Seething, Jack clutched the edge of the table. "Permission to speak freely."

"Denied." Hammond looked at the others. "SG-1, you're dismissed. Colonel, I'll see you in my office."

Shooting what he knew was a scathing look at his team members, Jack followed Hammond into his office.

"Take a seat."

"I'd rather not, sir."

Hammond sighed and sat down behind his desk. "Jack, sit down, and quit acting like a spoiled brat."

Stunned by the reprimand, Jack took a seat.

"Now," Hammond leaned back and studied his second in command, "to borrow my late wife's favorite phrase, why the hissy fit?"

"Sir?"

"I don't need to look at your record to know this isn't the first time you've been ordered for a routine psychiatric exam following a mission." When Jack merely stared back at him, Hammond straightened, resting his hands on his desk. "This isn't my first rodeo, Colonel. What's going on?"

"I don't trust him." Recognizing it as a meager excuse, Jack studied his knees.

"That's it? You don't trust him?"

He looked at his commander. "He's digging, sir. I'm working to build a team, and if you let him, I guarantee you he'll destroy it."

"To what end?"

Jack shrugged. "It's what his kind does. I've seen it before, sir. Firsthand. They mess with your head. Start poking and prodding, and before you know it, you're questioning everything you think and do and say. Nothing good ever comes of it."

"You sound pretty sure of yourself."

"General, please, I'm asking you to not do this. Rescind the order."

Hammond studied him for a long time, tapped a surprisingly slender finger on his desk. Jack wanted to squirm. He wanted to pace, and argue his point, but he didn't. He waited. When Hammond smiled, he knew he'd lost.

"The order stands."

Without a word of protest, Jack rose and walked to the door, his anger propelling him. Once there, he hesitated, then looked back at the general. He had to know. "Why are you doing this?"

Hammond pushed himself to his feet, but he didn't move from behind his desk. When he spoke, his voice was kind, fatherly. "Colonel, do you like Shakespeare?"

Jack blinked. *Shakespeare*? "No. Not particularly."

"There's a line in *Hamlet*. I'm sure you've heard it: 'The lady doth protest too much, methinks.'" Hammond smiled. "I'm not doing anything, Colonel. You did it to yourself."

* * * * *

Robert Makepiece had a confession to make: despite his very vocal assertions to the contrary, he liked Jack O'Neill. The two men were more alike than either of them cared to admit. Their first meeting had been much like two alpha wolves blundering upon one another for the first time – they'd circled, studied one another closely, and while they'd passed on the whole sniffing of butts and peeing on trees routine, they'd managed to come away from the encounter bearing equal parts respect and ambivalence. They appreciated one another's abilities. More importantly, they understood one another's failings.

Robert bitched to his men about the flyboys, and he knew all about O'Neill's 'jarhead' jokes. He'd heard them all before, and had to struggle not to laugh at most of them. To be honest, he even suspected many of them contained a grain of truth. But, he and O'Neill, as leaders of two of the premier SG teams, had a job to do. And, crazy as it might sound, encouraging a little antagonism between the Marine and Air Force units helped to solidify each individual team. So, as much as O'Neill complained about SG-3, Robert knew that Jack trusted him and his men to watch SG-1's six. In turn, he recognized Jack as one of the best combat officers he'd ever known.

Besides, Robert was all too aware of Jack's Special Forces training. Robert had tried for three years to get into Special Forces. After finally qualifying for entry into the program, he'd failed to make the cut after an agonizing seven months of sheer hell. Anyone who could survive the rigors of Special Forces training had Robert's vote. The fact that Jack had done just that, serving as company commander of 'A' team, a HALO unit – the most dangerous job one could pick – immensely elevated the man in his eyes.

Robert knew all about the training scenarios Jack would have undergone, including the Robin Sage – a five-week training exercise in which twelve-man teams were dropped in the middle of the Uwharrie Forest west of Fort Bragg. There, with minimal gear and under harsh conditions, the men put into practice everything they'd learned about ingratiating themselves with indigenous people in order to secure an area and disarm local combatants with minimal loss of life on both sides. Left to fend for themselves, the men's lives depended on their wits, their training and each other.

A few nights after Robert and Jack had first met, while exchanging war stories over pizza and beer, Jack had told him about a training exercise in which his unit was deposited by a fast rope descent from Black Hawk helicopters in the middle of the night in a small town in North Carolina. With the local residents forewarned and with the assistance of the local SWAT team, Jack's unit had been charged with the rescue of hostages who were being held by terrorists in an abandoned building. Meticulously clearing a five-story structure which their instructors had mined with oftentimes impossible barricades and obstacles, the men had met their objective and escaped the building with their hostages in tow . . . only to discover their escape route compromised because one of the choppers had 'crashed' in a nearby parking lot. Suddenly surrounded by armed terrorists, the team was forced to immediately amend its plan as they attempted to protect both the hostages and their own wounded personnel. The mission had failed miserably, and yet it had been an exercise that had stayed with each and every one of them. In the end, it had been a lesson which had more than likely saved countless lives.

That relentless training was only one of the reasons Jack O'Neill was absolutely fearless under fire. By the time a soldier earned that beret, that patch on the sleeve, his reactions were ingrained and his instincts had been honed. It was well-documented that, unlike the average person, the bodies of those trained in Special Forces constantly surged and ebbed with a violent rush of adrenaline dictated solely by the needs of the moment. It was due in part to that unique physiological response that when called upon to act or react, these men never flinched, never trembled, never pulled the trigger unless it was a planned move. Like the first Special Operations Forces truth said, 'humans are more important than hardware.'

The fact that O'Neill had drifted into the hazy arena of covert ops might darken his past and give rise to speculation about the various things in which he'd participated, but it was also one of the reasons Robert so easily trusted the man – Jack knew how to make the tough decisions, and he never hesitated to carry them out. Besides, his training never stopped. Robert knew that even now, years beyond Fort Bragg, Fort Campbell, Panama, Desert Storm and Somalia, O'Neill still spent countless hours rehearsing possible wartime scenarios in an attempt to keep his mind and his reactions sharp.

Jack O'Neill could be a complete ass, and Robert couldn't think of anyone he'd rather follow through the gate. It was a dichotomy which didn't concern him whatsoever, because he knew firsthand that military officers lived two lives. He imagined they were rather like celebrities or teachers in that respect. There was the persona, and there was the person. The persona was the one who could drive a grunt to tears or coldly assassinate the enemy or run headlong into the line of fire in order to drag home a wounded buddy or a dead body, all without a second thought. The person was the one who alternately wanted to laugh or cry or simply say 'fuck it' and go home.

Home . . . . Most of his men would be surprised to learn that at home, Robert was quiet and unassuming. He liked to read Thomas Cook mysteries, and he spent at least an hour every night on the computer e-mailing his daughter at college and playing Free Cell before going to bed. His favorite 'date' consisted of diving into a bowl of his wife Deb's homemade posolé, followed by her special double layer raspberry torte – all eaten while sitting with Deb on the hardwood floor of their living room in front of a roaring fire and a window that looked out over the mountains and the northwestern edge of the city, across Air Force property and towards Denver. When he wasn't away on missions, Robert dutifully phoned his mother twice a week, his wife once a day, and he shopped for groceries every Wednesday afternoon.

So, he shouldn't have been surprised when soon after their first meeting, he'd spied Jack O'Neill sitting in the Café at the local Barnes & Noble, sipping coffee and leafing through a stack of books. He shouldn't have been, but he was. After placing his order at the counter, Robert had hesitated only briefly before casually walking over to Jack's table.

"Hey."

Jack had looked up, a fleeting predatory look passing over his face before he smiled. "Makepiece." With a foot, he shoved out an empty chair in invitation. "What're you doing here?"

"Oh, you know." Robert sat down and glanced around at the busy store. "The book I ordered came in." He grinned at Jack. "'Reading for Jarheads, A Beginner's Guide.'"

Jack snorted softly in amusement.

"What about you?" Robert turned the stack of books, quickly studying the spines. You could learn a lot about a man by what he read. There were two books on gardening, one on management, a Tom Clancy novel, and a book of Hemingway short stories. "A little light reading?"

Jack shrugged and sipped his coffee. "I have a whole day and a half off. Thought I'd take advantage."

Robert nodded and snagged a magazine from beneath the pile of books. Bicycling. So that's how the guy stayed so fit. Robert pushed the magazine aside. "You own a motorcycle, don't you?"

"A '95 Harley Softail," Jack acknowledged. "You?"

And the two had proceeded to talk about the various bikes they'd owned until Robert's drinks were ready. He stood, oddly reluctant to leave. "Well, guess I'd better get Deb her latte before she comes looking for me."

"Your wife's here?"

"She's waiting out in the car. Say, we should get together for a ride when the weather clears."

Jack smiled. "That'd be fun."

"Well, I'll see you at the Mountain."

"Yeah." Absently, Jack nodded bye then went back to drinking his coffee and thumbing through a book on gardening in high altitudes.

That'd been over a month ago. Watching the man now, Robert had to wonder what Jack was up to. Five minutes ago, he'd run the enlisted men out of the rec room, and had gathered his team around the ping pong table. One long leg draped carefully over the corner of the flimsy game table, Jack was gesturing and talking earnestly. Burying his nose in a year-old copy of *Southern Living*, Robert smiled as he observed the looks on the faces of Jack's team members.

Daniel Jackson looked bored, Samantha Carter looked insulted, and Teal'c looked . . . well, Teal'c looked as passively scary as he always did. Robert suppressed a shiver, and wondered again about Jack's decision to include the Jaffa on his team. It just didn't seem right. The man – if that's what you wanted to call him – was more than an alien: he was a servant . . . a *product* of the enemy. He'd grown up amongst them, obeyed them, killed for them. Hell, until a few months ago, he'd idolized the damned things, and although Robert hadn't personally seen it, he knew Teal'c carried the makings of one in his gut. In spite of Jack O'Neill's obvious trust in him, the Jaffa gave Robert a serious case of the willies.

"What do you mean, 'why'?"

Jack's voice disrupted his thoughts, and Robert lowered the magazine to give his full attention to the four grouped around the table.

Daniel Jackson straightened his shoulders, a lock of shamefully long hair falling over his forehead. "I mean, why? Why do we have to do this? How does this fall within our job descriptions?"

"Job descriptions?" Grabbing the ping pong paddles off the table, Jack stood and started handing them out to his team. "This has nothing to do with work, Daniel. Don't you guys ever do anything but work? This is about play. Having a little fun. I bet Teal'c's never even played ping pong, have you, buddy?"

The Jaffa frowned down at the paddle which was dwarfed in his large hand. "I have not," he said with obvious distaste.

Jackson turned his own paddle over in his hand, studying it much as he would one of his artifacts. Watching him, Jack tiredly rubbed a hand over his face. "Oh, please. Daniel, don't tell me."

"What?"

Jack put his hands on his hips. "Please tell me you've played ping pong."

There was a momentary pause during which Jackson scrunched up his nose to adjust his glasses. "Okay . . . I've played ping pong," he deadpanned in a near perfect imitation of Jack.

Grumbling a curse, Jack glared over at Carter. Holding her paddle in an underhanded grip, she flipped it into the air then caught it, smiling at her CO. "At the academy, we had tournaments."

"Finally," Jack grinned.

"Yeah. It's really just a matter of physics. If you calculate the angle of the swing, and the amount of force that's transferred from the hand to the paddle and thus to the ball, you can determine where the ball will impact the surface of the table and in what direction it will ricochet."

Jack sighed loudly and set his paddle on the table in a very deliberate move.

Undaunted, Carter looked around at her teammates. "It's fascinating, really. And, with the exception of the size of the ball, the shape of the implement used to impact it, and the object of the game, it's very similar to billiards."

"Bullshit."

Carter flinched, and all three members of his team turned to look at Jack. He glared back at each of them in turn.

"This is bullshit."

"Sir?"

"Forget it." He grabbed the paddles from them, and tossed them onto the table. "Get out of here."

Jackson looked genuinely concerned. "What's the matter?"

"Just . . .," Jack shook his head and waved a hand towards the door. "Just go back to whatever the hell you were doing. Forget it."

Exchanging puzzled glances, Jack's team quietly left the rec room. In the silence that followed their departure, Robert retrieved the magazine and leafed through it without looking at it. Jack walked around the ping pong table, tapping a knuckle along its edge and chewing his bottom lip.

Robert smiled. He knew exactly what Jack had been trying to do. He understood the psychology behind it. He'd employed it himself on occasion. Trying to build a team was a hell of a lot harder than it looked. Picking the components of the team was the easy part. It was melding them together into something you could trust that was hard. Robert didn't envy Jack O'Neill because he had a sneaking feeling that trying to build a team out of a civilian, a woman who had a chip on her shoulder the size of her IQ, and an alien with a snake in his gut was nigh on impossible.

"Problem, Jack?" Robert smiled.

Jack looked at him, forced a stiff grin, and casually strolled past on his way to the door. "Fuck you, Makepiece," he snapped.

Robert laughed softly.

* * * * *

It was clear from the moment Jack O'Neill stepped into the room he was not a happy man. Had his broadside display of body language not made this fact obvious enough, then his words punctuated the fact, leaving no doubt as to how the colonel felt about being summoned to MacKenzie's office. "MacKenzie, what's this all about? My team's due for some down time, which by the way does not include having our heads shrunk, and I get word to report here."

"Glad to see you too, Colonel. Won't you come in and make yourself comfortable?" The doctor gestured towards the chair, a new addition to his office since O'Neill's last visit. It was a heavy, swivel desk chair. Not the usual fair for his patients, but perfect for keeping restless colonels grounded on four legs. O'Neill could rock to his heart's content, bleeding off excess tension, but the wheels would ground him and limit any attempts to take control of the session by way of positional body language.

MacKenzie had thought long and hard about today's battle plan. He'd laid awake staring up at the ceiling playing out scenarios and working out details. O'Neill was a master strategist, honed in combat to plot two steps ahead of the enemy. And like it or not, he saw MacKenzie as the enemy. It was an unfair generality, but for an intensely private man like O'Neill, even the best psychological intention was considered an invasion and as such, became a foe, a battle to be waged against and won. He'd made the mistake of providing O'Neill with ammunition the last time. The plant, the chair, little details which became missiles for the colonel to clutch, hoard, and launch at a moment in which they could inflict the most collateral damage to the session. Today, he was more prepared.

Standing behind his desk, MacKenzie watched O'Neill's eyes scan the room with an ease which bespoke his front-line status. "Sterilized your office, huh, MacKenzie?" He stared pointedly with a quirky grin at the new chair and the empty corner of the desk where the plant had rested.

"Thought it was time for a little housecleaning, Colonel." He shared a tight smile, acknowledging O'Neill's observation. "Please sit down, I'd like to get started." There was a pregnant hesitation in which O'Neill appeared to be weighing his options. Not that he had any. MacKenzie had taken the first step to disarm O'Neill in Hammond's office with the general’s order to report here. "Colonel."

Jack recognized the order for what it was. "Keeping me on the deck, I see." He eyed the wheels before moving to sit at stiff attention in the chair.

It was time to ease up just a tad. If he, or O'Neill, were to glean anything from this session, the colonel would need to remove the stick from his ass and relax.

"So what blood trail are you on, Doctor? Because I can tell you right up front, I'm not shopping for a bandaid."

"Fair enough, Colonel. I appreciate your candor."

"I'm sure."

His jaw tightened at O'Neill's sarcastic snort. Hands folded in teepee fashion atop his desk, MacKenzie's forefingers tapped together in unconscious rhythm. He took a deep breath. "Colonel, I can appreciate that you don't want to be here."

"You can say-"

"Please have the courtesy to allow me to finish." Jack tilted his head in acquiescence. "I have a job to do, just as you do. One which, I assure you, I take very seriously. I don't expect you to like me," he shot a warning as O'Neill opened his mouth to speak, "but, I do expect your cooperation. I know you're concerned about your team. Blending separate personalities into a cohesive unit is never easy. It's not a simple task you've been assigned, not an easy one you've assigned yourself. But I can help."

"How?"

The simple question spoke volumes. It seemed the team was O'Neill's backdoor. One through which he might be allowed entrance. It was obvious O'Neill was concerned about the people assigned to him. He was a good leader who recognized there was more to building a team than cutting orders. "I can help you get a handle on what makes the members of your team tick. I won't break confidentialities, yours or anyone else's, but I can provide you with insight which you can then apply. Are you willing to give it a try, Colonel?"

And then, so subtle he would have missed it had he not been observing carefully, the man's entire baseline demeanor shifted. The hard eyes melted from adversarial to brimming instead with cautious curiosity. He gave a stiff half nod. "Shoot."

Vastly relieved, but feeling as if he were treading across quicksand, MacKenzie nodded and opened the file lying in front of him. "P3X-797. The Land of Light," he quickly added as O'Neill's expression pinched into a frown. "As you know, I've interviewed the personnel here at the SGC who were affected by the virus."

"We've been down this trail before." O'Neill's voice held a warning. MacKenzie had no doubt certain paths were clearly labeled 'Keep Out.'

"Yes, we have," he quickly agreed, "but bear with me for a moment. What I'd like to discuss is something I read, or actually, to be more precise, didn't read in your mission report."

"Do me a favor and just spit it out, will ya? I left my tap dancing shoes in my locker."

"Colonel, why did you neglect to mention the attack on the native girl, Melosha, which occurred shortly after you arrived on the planet?" There was a telltale jump of O'Neill's Adam's-apple, betraying a momentary anxiety before he shrugged non-committally. MacKenzie allowed a slow ten-count before issuing a prompt. "There must have been a reason. A young woman was apparently being sexually assaulted, and yet according to the mission reports, you did nothing. Weren't you the least bit disturbed by this event?"

"I thought we'd agreed you were gonna hand out some insightful team crap that was gonna solve all my problems. Should've known that was a red herring. Well, my fun meter's pegged, Doc. So if there's nothing else, I'll be going now." Jack started to rise when MacKenzie's voice whipped the distance between them.

"Sit down, Colonel O'Neill. We are not finished." He'd been called in to practice some meatball psychiatry near the front lines for a short time during Desert Storm. There was a rebellious gleam in O'Neill's eyes, one MacKenzie had seen in the eyes of men prepping for battle; the look an instant before they threw themselves from the plane and gambled their lives that the parachute would open. "Please answer my question."

"What do you want me to say?" Jack growled. "The situation didn't call for interference. It was a local matter, and I saw no reason to put my team at risk, or even the Jarheads, for that matter. Hell, as far as we knew, maybe the locals just liked playing rough." He paused and looked away. "Besides, the Untouched handled the situation, so it was no fight – no foul."

"And, had the Untouched not 'handled' it, as you put it, would you then have deemed it unnecessary to stop the attack?"

"Didn't happen. They took care of it."

"But if it *had* happened, Colonel. Then what?" He was pushing. He could see it written in O'Neill's stiffening countenance. "Would you have stopped the attack?"

"No! No, I wouldn't have stopped it."

"Even to the point of actual rape?"

"Even to that point." O'Neill's breath was on the ragged edge of controlled. He had leaned forward and had a death lock on the edge of the desk. "Why? Does that make me some kind of a freakin' monster in your book?"

The doctor ignored the question and the implication. "Could it possibly be that you were already being affected by the virus on some deep level? After all, you had suffered an open wound that could have placed you at a higher risk of contamination than the others." O'Neill's emotions were near the surface. He was shaking his head, denying the possibility, while clearly disturbed by the accusation. Now was the time to push, not comfort. "Perhaps, on some subconscious level, you were experiencing a voyeuristic gratification at witnessing the attack. Or, perhaps, you like to – how did you phrase it, Colonel – 'play rough' yourself. It's not unheard of for someone in your line of work."

Rage blackened O'Neill's eyes as he exploded from the chair. "Fuck you, MacKenzie!" The door ricocheted against the hinges as he stormed from the room.

* * * * *

It was a toss up which of them appeared more uncomfortable. MacKenzie could feel sweat beading beneath his uniform, dampening the armpits of his shirt. Hopefully, his jacket would cover the shame of nerves. Teal'c sat with the rigidity which normally bespoke ill-ease, although his face was blank serenity.

"Is the chair comfortable, Mr. . . . ah, Teal'c?"

Dark eyes met his evenly. "The chair is adequate, Doctor MacKenzie."

Shifting in his seat, the doctor cleared his voice. His throat was dry, and he wished he'd thought to have a glass of water on hand. Dammit, he felt like a virgin analyst facing his first solo session. He needed to take control, first of himself, and then of this session. "Does it bother you to be here to talk with me?"

Teal'c calmly considered the question before answering, "It does not."

"Good. I'm glad. That's important – that you don't . . . mind . . . ah, being here." The doctor's voice petered out as he realized he was dangerously close to babbling. It was the mask this alien was wearing and what was behind it that was throwing him off – playing havoc with his normally calm demeanor. He was a master linguist in the subtle art of body language, but this man was speaking in a tongue he could not translate. He'd been handed a blank slate and had discovered, too late, there was nothing to decipher. It made him hyper-cautious, as if he were treading through a mental field of land mines, conscious of the fact that at any moment, with an ill-chosen word, he could trigger an explosion. For too many years, he had strode, confident in the knowledge he could choose to detonate at will any explosive behind which his patient had barricaded himself. It was a matter of simply using the right trigger – the right trigger and the expertise not to get caught in the fallout.

But this man – this man was an alien for God's sake. How could he possibly know where to look in an alien mind when he couldn't even pick up clues from the parts that were visible?

"Did you wish to discuss something, Doctor MacKenzie? O'Neill mentioned the shrinking of heads."

"Head shrinking?" MacKenzie gave a nervous chuckle. "That would be the colonel's idea of a joke, Teal'c. A very old, very clichéd joke."

"I see."

"What Colonel O'Neill means is that it's my job to get inside people's heads."

"Then you are not unlike the Goa'uld in that matter."

Sputtering, MacKenzie shook his head. "Absolutely not! It's my job to help people with mental illness to get better. I'm not a parasite." He beat back a covert, hallucinatory attack of O'Neill's smirk. "I'm a doctor, like Doctor Fraiser, but I specialize in people's thoughts and emotions – how they feel about things. Does that make sense?"

There was a gracious nod as Teal'c answered with simple affirmation. "It does."

"Teal'c," MacKenzie glanced at the open file on his desk, "would you mind if we discussed your mission to the planet referred to as the Land of Light?" When there was no objection voiced, he continued. "In your report, you mentioned the attack you and the rest of SG-1 witnessed on the native woman, Melosha." Teal'c nodded, but chose not to elaborate, despite the deliberate silence the doctor had left for him to fill. As the silence stretched, MacKenzie picked up the string of thought. "You said she was," he hesitated, "being taken." He stopped, hoping Teal'c would heed his prompt and fill in the necessary details. "By the Touched," he added lamely.

Nothing. Couldn't this man grasp the simplest concept of a dialogue? Dialogue – two people conversing. MacKenzie shifted in his seat. He slipped one finger and then another between his collar and neck. His damn tie seemed bent on strangling him. It was overly warm in this office. A bead of sweat broke loose, and trailed slowly down his neck. He'd have to make a note to call maintenance. There must be something wrong with the thermostat system.

"Doctor MacKenzie, are you ill? You appear uncomfortable."

"I'm fine," he snapped, and then in a calmer tone added, "thank you for asking. It just seems a little warm in here."

"I had not noticed. Would you like me to summon Doctor Fraiser?"

MacKenzie blinked, wiping a hand across his damp face. For God's sake, pull yourself together, Stephen. Get control. That's an order. "Teal'c, I apologize. I'm fine. Let's continue, shall we?" Teal'c's head tilted in regal acquiescence. "You reported Melosha was taken." He paused, waiting for Teal'c to continue the narration. But, with a suddenness which was both alarming and embarrassing for the veteran psychiatrist, he heard himself blurt out, "You stood there watching a young woman being attacked by a group of savages. How did that make you feel?" His face flushed at his uncharacteristically passionate outburst.

"During my service to Apophis, I often saw women used in such a manner. I did not see the incident as an attack, therefore, but rather the male Touched taking what was their due. I was not aware it was unusual until Captain Carter became upset." He sat there calmly waiting for the doctor's next question.

It was only by shear will that MacKenzie held himself in check. This . . .this alien being sitting calmly across from him had just related that in his society, women were chattel to be used at will. 'Men's *due*?' The idea of his wife and daughter being used, or even thought of, in such a manner filled him with righteous anger. My God. It was a miracle Captain Carter had not been molested by this man. He was surprised O'Neill hadn't picked up on this atrocity. But, given how the colonel had reacted in their last session, perhaps he was as sexually deviant as the alien on his team. In any event, he appeared to be blinded by his friendship towards the alien. Was it possible the Jaffa had such different value systems that the women of the base could be at risk? Teal'c had thus far not proven to be a threat, as far as he knew, but with this new information, precautions would need to be taken immediately.

Feigning calm deliberation, MacKenzie wrote a note in the margin of the file. "Teal'c, I believe we're done for now. We'll pick this up again soon. Why don't you go back to your quarters now?" He watched, his stomach knotted, as Teal'c gracefully rose with a nod and silently left the room. Before the door had shut with a soft click, MacKenzie reached for his phone. "General Hammond, I have something important we need to discuss immediately, sir."

* * * * *

"Relax, Captain, this won't take too long. I just wanted a chance to clear up a few questions I had from your report." MacKenzie tapped his pen on the file folder as he quickly and skillfully established a relaxed, professional rapport. After the tempestuous session with O'Neill and his humiliating performance with Teal'c, it was comforting to sit across from Captain Carter and tell himself he was good at his job, and know it was true. "So, you've had what," he checked his notes, "five or six missions off-world?"

"Seven, counting Abydos."

"Ah, that's right. Abydos. Where Doctor Jackson's wife was kidnapped by Apophis's first prime?" He observed her reaction carefully, mentally noting how her cooperative attitude suddenly shifted to guarded. She was obviously trying to pre-determine where his question was leading.

"Yes, sir."

"That would have been Teal'c, wouldn't it, Captain?"

"If you say so, sir," she answered stiffly.

"No, actually, Captain Carter, you said so, in your first mission report." She chose not to respond.

"By the way, Captain," the doctor mentioned casually, "have you noticed anything odd about Teal'c since joining SG-1?"

"You mean, other than the fact he's a Jaffa from Chu'lak?" Sam's nervous laughter fizzled away beneath the weight of his frown. "Sorry, sir, "she muttered." Teal'c has proven to be an excellent and trustworthy member of SG-1. He's a valuable asset, as I'm sure Colonel O'Neill and Daniel would confirm. May I ask why you want to know?"

He ignored her question. "So, he has never made any type of unwarranted advances to you while on a mission?"

She appeared genuinely shocked by his implied accusation. "Never. On, or off, a mission," she added firmly. "I trust Teal'c completely. He's not like that, sir."

"How do you know, Captain? A handful of missions isn't much time to get to know someone."

MacKenzie could see her anger building. "I just know, sir. I can't explain how exactly, but I know."

"I see you lost your mother when you were quite young."

The change in subject obviously caught her off guard, as was his intention. Keep one step ahead of her, and keep her slightly off balance. Don't let her think too long and hard before she answers. That way, she would be less likely to second guess herself.

"Yes, sir. She was killed when I was a teenager."

"That must have been extremely hard on you."

Clouds shadowed the sky blue in her eyes before she answered. "It was, but I coped."

"I'm sure you did. You appear to be a strong, determined person. And, it was after your mother's death that you then decided to make a career in the Air Force?"

Sam's brow furrowed. "It had always been something I'd considered, but . . .," she hesitated, "yes, it was shortly after that time that I made a firm decision."

"You were top of your class at the Academy." He noted the momentary downward cast of her eyes, and the slight flush of her cheeks. Interesting. "It's too bad your mother was unable to see your accomplishments."

"She would have been proud."

"No doubt." How significant was it that the Captain had referred only to her mother? According to her personnel file, her father was Jacob Carter – Major General Jacob Carter.

MacKenzie was debating whether to pursue this trail when Sam added quietly, "My mom used to tell me to set my goals beyond the stars." She stopped, blinking back the threat of tears at the irony of her mother's words, before giving him a tight smile and continuing. "She encouraged me to reach out for whatever I wanted, and not let anyone stop me."

"She sounds like a remarkable woman," he interjected gently with complete honesty.

"She was." Sam's eyes drifted downward to her hands, folded neatly in her lap.

"Captain Carter, in your last mission report, you stated SG-1 watched as a young woman was attacked. You referred to it as," he allowed his finger to trace over the word, "rape." He watched as the captain reacted to her own choice of words, becoming immediately edgy, her tension clear.

"Yes, sir."

"What was it that disturbed you the most about the entire situation?" When she hesitated, he prompted, "Come now, Captain, what was it? Was it Colonel O'Neill's apparent lack of concern and callous attitude? What?"

She shook her head, trying to deny his accusations. For a tense moment, their eyes were locked within his demand for an answer before she blurted, "It was wrong. We were just standing there watching them rape that girl. She had no control over what they were doing to her. None." She stopped, apparently realizing her voice had risen. Her eyes widened, and her lips pressed into a thin line as she watched the doctor take notes. Sam hesitated, her eyes darting to his illegible scrawls corrupting the pristine lines of her report. "It's just . . . we could have helped her, and we didn't."

"And yet, you attacked Colonel O'Neill in the locker room." He said it with deliberate calmness, as if it were something of nominal importance which had just occurred to him.

"Excuse me." Sam stood up, her face flushed. "I'm late for a meeting," she stammered as she fled.

* * * * *

"Doctor Jackson, I have to thank you for recommending the Antti Revonsu article. I found his thoughts to be truly enlightening." Daniel's face registered open surprise. MacKenzie was no gambler, but he would have been willing to bet his paycheck that the number of people here on base besides Jackson and himself who had read that particular article numbered somewhere between zero and nil. He had found Revonsu's theories intriguing, and now they were playing a secondary role in establishing a bridge of communication between him and Jackson. "Consciousness of the brain is an area wide open to study, particularly as it relates to the work of Paul Broca. Don't you agree?"

Daniel continued to look amazed, but then he was probably better aware of the odds of someone reading the article than MacKenzie was. Despite his surprise, he managed to sputter, "Absolutely. His pioneering contributions to neurology and the concept of functional localization by cerebral convolution was pivotal to later foundational studies. You actually took time to read it? And you found it interesting? That's . . . it's . . . wow."

MacKenzie allowed himself a benevolent smile at the man's overt astonishment. "Yes, I certainly did read it, and enjoyed it as well. In fact, it peaked my curiosity, and I found several other worthy studies which I'd be glad to recommend to you, if you're interested."

"Thank you." Daniel frowned before lowering his voice and confessing, "I don't usually meet someone who expresses an interest in the topic, much less takes time to study it."

"Well, as you said, it is pivotal to the foundations of modern craniometry, Doctor Jackson. A subject near and dear to my heart. I imagine that was one of the reasons you found the discovery of ancient man on P3X-797 so exciting."

"Exactly!" MacKenzie watched as Daniel leaned forward, his eyes alight behind his glasses. "It's one thing to read Broca's theories, but to actually observe living, breathing examples of the divide. It's . . .it's . . ."

"A chance of a lifetime," MacKenzie offered.

"Exactly!" Daniel repeated earnestly. "The opportunity to actually see the interpersonal workings of the tribal hierarchy was nothing short of fascinating."

"And the native woman from the Untouched?"

". . . provided the perfect manipulative variable. Without her presence, it would have been impossible to observe the dominant and submissive behaviors of the various caste systems within the group. I could only have theorized that the descending pecking order included sexual gratification as opposed to simple reproduction."

It was very obvious to MacKenzie that Daniel had blocked out all semblance of the young woman's humanity. She had simply provided fodder for his research, thus confirming his impressions of Doctor Jackson's mission report. It was deeply disturbing – disturbing and confusing. Because, based on what he knew, this young man was known throughout the SGC for his compassionate and caring nature. He needed some time to consider the best way to deal with this revelation. "I'm sorry, Doctor Jackson, but I'm afraid we're going to have to continue this discussion at a later time."

Daniel blinked owlishly, clearly surprised to have the doctor cut off their conversation. "Oh, right. Of course." He stood, clearly a bit unsure of what to do next.

MacKenzie stood and nodded towards the door. "I'll look forward to our next meeting, Doctor. Thank you for coming in." Daniel nodded and moved towards the door. Waiting until the man had reached out for the doorknob, MacKenzie asked casually, "Doctor Jackson, how are you sleeping, if I may ask? You look a bit tired."

"Sleeping? Fine. No problem," Daniel stammered, his eyes affixed to the doorhandle. "Ah," he hesitated, clearly ill-at-ease, "thanks for your concern. But I'm fine." He glanced nervously back at MacKenzie, giving him a shaky smile. "Thank you," he repeated as he walked quickly out of the office. "I'm fine."

MacKenzie released a deep sigh as he sat heavily in his chair, staring at the closed door through which Daniel had escaped. I don't think so, Doctor Jackson. Lie to yourself, if you can. There's only temporary comfort in denial. But, there's more to this than you're saying, and you're going to help me uncover it. His fingers drummed the cover of the file, tapping against the things being said and those not . . . yet.

* * * * *

The blaring noise grating from the television should have absorbed the sound of his feeble knock. He was surprised by the volume. For some reason, he had assumed higher decibels might bother a Jaffa's keen sensitivity, although he'd had no real reason to think about it much, or at all for that matter. In truth, Daniel was relieved that some merciful deity somewhere could smile benevolently that he'd completed his given task, temporarily vanquishing the demons of anxiety long enough to make his way to Teal'c's quarters and tap timidly on the door.

He was even more surprised when the door swung open revealing Teal'c bathed in the flickering light of the television. "Come in, Daniel Jackson."

Daniel hesitated, swallowing the urge to turn and walk away without a word, but he'd learned long ago the futility in avoiding the inevitable. A hardy diet of realism from a young age had strengthened his pragmatic nature – a heritage gifted him by his mother and grandfather. "Ah, thank you." He stood silently cursing himself for having come, feeling awkward and completely at a loss for what to say. "You're watching wrestling?" he said, blinking in surprise against the harsh glare of the television.

"Major Ferretti assures me the inhabitants of the Federation of the World of Wrestling are formidable warriors."

"Ferretti told you that?"

Teal'c nodded. "He graciously provided me with his collection of . . .," frowning, Teal'c clearly fumbled for the proper phrase, "DVD's, which he states sustained him while he was recuperating from the injuries he received on Abydos."

"I see."

"O'Neill, however, remains unimpressed by the Federation of Wrestlers, and is in the process of providing me with satellite television."

"Why am I not surprised?"

Teal'c cocked his head in thought. "Perhaps because O'Neill assures me no man would settle for less than the Premium Sports Package." When Daniel didn't respond, Teal'c added, "One hundred and eighty channels, thirty-five of which are dedicated exclusively to sporting events designed to test a man's . . . mettle."

"Right. And, am I right in assuming those were Jack's exact words?"

"Indeed."

"Ah." Glancing at the blaring television, Daniel grimaced as a beefy, tights-clad man in a mask tossed another man wearing lime green lycra across the ring, slamming his opponent's head into the turnbuckle. Grunts and groans amplified throughout the room as the masked man flipped his stunned adversary, straddled him and began to grind his face into the mat, amidst the wild catcalls of the incensed crowd. It appeared the match was over when the man suddenly went limp from what Daniel assumed was asphyxiation. Sickened, Daniel watched as the apparent victor/psychotic murderer picked up the limp body and tossed it out of the ring into the flailing arms of the frenzied fans. The camera closed in on the face of an older woman, doubtlessly someone's grandmother, as she snarled curses at the wrestler prancing out a dance of victory in the ring.

Just as the announcer pronounced him the winner, he was cold-cocked with a folded metal chair by the formerly dead man in lime. Daniel gasped, shocked by the crowd's reaction to the brutality. "Is that fair? I mean, can he hit the other guy with a chair like that?"

Teal'c watched the violent turn of events with a critical eye. "It is a screw-job when a jobber receives a potato on the post, Daniel Jackson."

"Yes. No doubt that's true. I'm, ah, sure you're right about the potato and the, er, screw-job . . . thing. Listen, Teal'c, I was wondering if we could maybe turn off the TV for a while and talk."

Teal'c immediately crossed to the set. "As you wish." Daniel risked a final glance towards the battle. He could almost smell the sweat and blood-lust radiating from the fans. Both combatants were once again responding to the fans' blood chant and were grappling in a mutual two-sided head lock. In the midst of the battle, the screen went black. "What is it you wished to speak of?"

Daniel shifted, more uncomfortable in the sudden silence of the room than with the ear-shattering chaos of a moment before. He looked up into Teal'c's deadpan expression as the Jaffa patiently waited for Daniel to begin the conversation. If only he knew how to begin. "Do you think maybe we could sit down or something?"

Without a word, Teal’c dropped gracefully to the floor.

"Oh, well, what the hell," Daniel muttered with a mental shrug. Crossing his ankles, he sank to the concrete opposite his teammate. Staring at the nondescript pattern of imperfections on the floor between them, Daniel sighed heavily. "Maybe this was a mistake. I shouldn't have bothered you."

Teal'c uncrossed his long legs and rose effortlessly. Daniel watched silently, relieved at the reprieve, but curious despite himself when Teal'c walked across the room and picked up a large candle before resuming his place on the floor. Mutely, he watched as the Jaffa muttered a low chant and lit the wick. Daniel's eyes were drawn moth-like to the flickering flame. A rich sandalwood scent wafted around them. It was a sweet, exotic smell – woody, warm – and Daniel was surprised to find himself relaxing. "That's nice."

"Indeed."

"Teal'c, do you think Jack's right?"

"In what regard?"

Daniel tore his eyes from the candle and looked into the warm brown eyes. "He says we'll find Sha're." He paused and looked away. "He says we won't stop looking until we do."

"Do you not believe O'Neill is a man of his word?"

"No. I mean, yes, of course I believe Jack is telling the truth. It's just that, I think Jack is telling me what he thinks I need to hear. Does that make sense?"

"It does."

"I think it's Jack's nature to protect people. I think it's part of what makes him a good leader." Teal'c nodded his encouragement for Daniel to continue. "But," he hesitated, "sometimes, he goes a little . . . overboard. Sometimes, he overprotects in an effort to keep the people he cares about from being hurt."

"Would you not do the same for those you care about, Daniel Jackson?"

"Of course. I'd do anything in my power to protect my wife." At Teal'c's raised eyebrow, he added softly, "So, I guess Jack and I have more in common than I thought." The men watched the flickering candlelight in silence. "When Sha're and I were first married, I thought I needed to prove myself. I didn't want to embarrass my wife in front of her people, so I talked Skaara into taking me hunting for a maau-hetch. It was the local version of an antelope. Bambi on steroids, which means nothing to you, does it? Big, ugly . . . dangerous," he added when Teal'c's expression confirmed he had no idea what Daniel was talking about. "Even the seasoned hunters were cautious. We took a couple of mastage and snuck out the city gate, past the mines, and out into the dunes where these things grazed on the saw grass. It was stupid."

"And did you accomplish what you set out to do?"

Daniel smiled grimly. "Oh, yeah. I still don't know how the two of us managed to escape without getting ourselves killed, but we did. We came back toting the carcass on a sled. Its horns dragged furrows in the sand all the way back. Skaara bragged all the way home how proud Sha're would be. He almost had me believing it."

Quiet humor lit Teal'c's eyes. "But she was not."

Daniel gave a quiet snort. "Oh, you could say that. We pranced through the gate and into the city dragging our kill. By the time we stopped in front of Kasuf's tent, we'd drawn a huge crowd. Sha're stepped out of the shadows. She never said a word, but I suddenly felt more foolish than I'd ever felt in my entire life. She told me later that I never had to prove myself by the standard of others. I only needed to measure my actions by my own standard – by those things which I was called on to do. Only when I failed there could I count myself a failure."

"She was a wise woman."

"She *is* a wise woman."

Teal'c nodded. "Each of us must follow the path set before us."

"That's true. But, what happens when you suddenly discover you've drifted off that path and you're going in a different direction?"

"Then, it is a fortunate person to have companions who travel along while he searches."

"Teal'c, what didn't you tell me back on the planet? There was something there. I know there was, but . . ." his voice trailed off.

"The translation holds no promise of finding your wife. Apophis left no record of his destination. There is no way this information will lead you to Amaunet's home-world."

"In other words, I'm wasting my time on a dead end." Daniel closed his eyes. "And you shared this with Jack?" He pressed his lips tightly together as he struggled for control. "You told Jack and he told you not to tell me. Right?"

"Daniel Jackson . . ."

Struggling to his feet, Daniel walked quickly to the door. "Excuse me, Teal'c. I need some time alone to think."

* * * * *

There were few people in the dining hall. It was too late for the day staff's dinner and too early for the night staff's breakfast. Sam grimaced at the congealed offerings – literally the bottom of the barrel – which the bored server stood poised with spoon in hand ready to heap onto her plate. "What is it?" She couldn't decide if her question came out tentative or sarcastic. Maybe tentative sarcasm? Somehow, she didn't think she'd ever be able to master sarcasm like the colonel. The man had panache in the sarcasm department.

"I just came on duty, ma'am. I think it's some kind of chicken." The man shrugged.

Wrinkling her nose, Sam shook her head. Definitely foul. "I think I'll stick with a salad."

Sam smiled to herself as she grabbed one of the ready-made chef salads and rifled through the packages of dressings until she found two that matched. Maybe there was hope for her in the sarcasm department yet. She'd always been a quick study, even if she was a closet smart-ass. You couldn't be Jacob Carter's daughter and not have a recessive gene or two. Sam watched the carbonated bubbles of her Diet Coke fight for the surface, only to explode once they rose above the crowd. Isn't that symbolic, she thought, immediately chiding her pessimistic attitude. It was pretty pathetic when you began to see your own life in a glass of Coke. She'd worked too long and hard to allow negativity to creep in and sabotage this plum assignment. Setting her jaw, Sam focused on a lifetime of discipline and ordered her thoughts onto more positive ground.

"Hey, Teal'c, okay to join you?" Sam smiled and set down her tray opposite her teammate.

"Of course, Captain Carter." Teal'c nodded graciously.

"You're eating kind of late," Sam commented, popping the lid off her salad and recapturing an AWOL crouton that fell onto her tray.

"As are you." Teal'c watched as she struggled to tear open a package of dressing.

"These stupid things are a pain. I never can get them open the right way." She shrugged and used her teeth to tear open a corner of the stubborn package. Squirting the dressing on her salad, she speared a large bite of lettuce, chewed and swallowed it before she added, "I probably shouldn't use my teeth to open it, but it works." Teal'c refrained from judgment, opting instead to return to his own meal. Sam struggled for some kind of small talk to fill the silence between them. She was drawing a blank. Even the old cliché of discussing the weather was useless since Teal'c was confined to base.

"How is it?" She nodded towards the mystery chicken dish. "It looked foul," she joked.

"It is."

"What?"

"It is fowl."

Sam's smile melted. So much for the camaraderie of a mutual dig at the cook's food. "I was just kidding, Teal'c. You know, fowl . . . foul."

"I see."

Sam dove back into the dressing slathered surface of her salad. Why was it so hard having a simple dinner conversation with this man? He was a teammate, for God's sake. One who had never treated her with anything other than the utmost respect? If it had been Daniel sitting across from her, she knew there would have been none of this awkward silence. From the moment they'd met, there'd been the natural bridge of their common love of learning to compensate for any tendencies towards introversion. She and Daniel could carry on a conversation, argue a point of contention, encourage and expand thought, despite their fields of expertise.

The colonel was a different matter. She was still walking on eggshells trying to figure him out. She'd already learned O'Neill wasn't one to make flowery comments praising her actions. But, his occasional off-handed affirming words rang true and made her proud. Still, if it had been O'Neill sitting opposite her, Sam could have buried any unease beneath the cloak of becoming 'one of the boys' – a cloak she'd long ago learned to don which liberated her from stereotypic sexual bias and hid any hint of shyness that could be seen as a weakness in this man's Air Force. Despite their obvious differences, she and O'Neill were officers, and as such, there were commonalities to use as a springboard for conversation.

She was still kicking herself for pissing off the colonel in the rec room. She should have known better. But, she'd been nervous and had let down her guard, babbling on about physics to a regular Air Force type like the colonel. She'd known she'd blown it even before O'Neill's face had hardened and he'd ordered them out. She'd kicked herself all the way back to her lab where she'd taken refuge in her work, hiding from the uncomfortable issues lurking outside her equations. Numbers were safe. There were no emotions attached. No expectations. She understood the rules and felt like she was on solid ground with nary an eggshell in sight. In the short time she'd been here, her lab had already become her refuge. Which was why she'd ended up eating late and was now staring at dressing-smeared vegetables wishing she could think of something at least semi-intelligent to say.

So, Teal'c, what was it like being a slave to a false god? Back on Chu'lak, when Apophis ordered you to kill all of us – that wasn't the first time he'd done that, was it? It was just the first time you'd said no, right? Seen any good movies lately? How 'bout those Rockies?

"Captain Carter, may I ask you a question?"

Sam looked up, startled. "Sure, Teal'c. Of course."

"Where I come from, females are trained to fight solely to protect their homes if it becomes necessary, but only men are warriors. It is the duty of all Jaffa men to protect their women and children, and yet here, I see women join in the fight against the Goa'uld. Is this a common characteristic of the women of the Tauri?"

"That's not an easy thing to answer. Some women have a strong desire to serve their country, others have no desire to join the military, and that's okay. It's all about personal choices." Sam paused, before speaking again, sincerity lighting her eyes. "I'm really proud of what I do, Teal'c. It's challenging and important, and I like to think I'm making a difference." She stopped, her cheeks flushed at the passion with which she had spoken. She was startled to see Teal'c nod, his normally impassive expression alight with agreement.

"Indeed."

* * * * *

He had searched the locker room, the dining hall and the gym before he located O'Neill sitting on the back of the couch, his feet resting on the faded cushions, in the room designated for recreation. Ignoring the television, the man was holding the small piece of wood he had referred to as a ping pong paddle. Teal'c watched silently as O'Neill's long fingers repeatedly traced the paddle's outline. The man's blank stare convinced Teal'c his friend's mind was not on the aborted game.

"Need something, Teal'c?"

Although he had made no sound to indicate his presence, Teal'c was not surprised O'Neill was aware he was being watched. He would have expected no less. What did surprise him was the weariness coloring his friend's normal enthusiasm. The hour was late and yet Teal'c did not believe this was the reason for the slump in O'Neill's shoulders.

O'Neill held out the paddle, waving it gently back and forth in front of him. "Come for another team building grudge match? Bet you can get some pretty high odds it'll be a bust. Ask Makepeace. Maybe he and his jarheads can spot you some points." When Teal'c did not respond, O'Neill continued. "She made it into a mathematical equation – a damn math problem. It was just a game; something to break the ice. Was that too much to expect, Teal'c? Just let go and have a little fun."

"Perhaps Captain Carter's idea of fun is different than your own."

O'Neill snorted in ill-humor. "Ya think?"

"I do not understand, O'Neill. Is this wrong?"

"Not wrong, just . . ." Teal'c read uncharacteristic uncertainty in the dark eyes. "It's just that it's my responsibility to build this team. How can we trust each other off-world if . . . ." He stopped and looked away. "And Daniel," Jack growled softly. "Daniel was bored out of his skull. You'd have thought I'd asked him if I could use one of his rock thingys for a puck during Saturday's game. All I was asking for was a little time away from his work. Was that too much? Just a lousy few minutes to try and have some fun together as a team."

"I do not believe it was, O'Neill. I am sure Captain Carter and Daniel Jackson appreciated your intent, if not your method." There was no confusion in translating the look of disgust O'Neill leveled in his direction. "I, for one, have decided it would be enjoyable to learn the game of ping pong."

"Don't! Just stop it right now."

"I do not understand, O'Neill. Is this not what you wished?"

"Don't play the willing servant with me, Teal'c. I am not, I repeat not, Apophis, and while I may be your commanding officer and damn sure expect you to follow my orders when we're on a mission, you don't have to do, or say, anything just to please me. That's not how it works. That's not how I work. Are we clear on that?"

Teal'c contemplated the statement, surprised at O'Neill's vehement declaration. "We are," he acknowledged seriously with a slight bow.

"And while we're at it, Teal'c, let's try and keep the bowing thing to a minimum. Okay?"

His lips relaxed and one corner twitched slightly in amusement. "As you wish."

"So, it wasn't ping pong that brought you here, and I'm thinking you're not out on a midnight refrigerator raid, so spill it. Why were you looking for me?"

"Daniel Jackson came to see me."

"Oh, yeah?" Unfamiliar emotions flared, momentarily flooding his friend's face before the blank mask was donned once again.

"He wished to know the truth about our recent mission."

"And I suppose you told him?" His voice was a study of neutrality.

"I did."

Jack sighed deeply. "Was he pissed?"

Teal'c studied O'Neill calmly. "It is possible, but I believe he will overcome his anger and will at some point understand your motive."

"Yeah, well swell, because I sure as hell don't." He flung the small paddle at the table. It hit the stack of other paddles sending them crashing off the table and onto the floor. "I don't understand at all."

* * * * *

'Dan-yel.'

Her exotic voice was soft and laced with the sultry seductiveness he'd never been able to resist. He groaned, smiling sleepily.

'My husband.'

'Sha're?'

'Dan-yel.'

He shifted, disturbed at a growing intensity in her voice.

'Dan-yel!'

He searched for her in the dark. 'Sha're?'

Firelight flickered, granting him disjointed images. Fingers on flesh. Rough hands on smooth thighs.

'Dan-yel,' she sobbed.

Daniel struggled to reach her. 'No!' He fought to stop the hands grabbing at her pale thighs. A tanned hand curled, forming a vicious claw that scratched her tender flesh. 'No!'

Sha're screamed. 'Dan-yel, please!'

Oh, God. He was panting, struggling to move leaden limbs which felt like someone else's. Powerless, he watched her flailing legs as she kicked at her attacker, and he listened to the tearing of cloth and his wife's frenzied screams.

"Daniel?"

BDU's were ripped. Green cloth was flung aside with savage fury.

Weary, her struggles slackened, and Sha're whimpered softly, miserably. 'Dan-yel.'

"Daniel."

He grunted and struggled to push himself upright. Held in place by an invisible band, he fought desperately.

"Daniel!"

Gasping, he opened his eyes and looked down at the hand resting on his sleeve, following the long arm up and over until his sleep-filled eyes settled on his friend's face.

The rhythmic sound of the windshield wipers provided a suitable backdrop for his nightmare as Jack stared at him through the semi-darkness. Thunder rolled, a horn sounded, and harsh, yellow light crawled up Jack's face, causing him to squint and turn his head against the sudden brightness of an oncoming car. Then the car passed, the light faded, and they were plunged into damp darkness once again. Lightning flashed in the distance and in response, the rain intensified, nearly overpowering Jack's hushed, "You okay?"

Still breathless, Daniel looked around. It was nighttime, and they were sitting in the cab of Jack's pick-up which was parked on the soft shoulder of a narrow mountain road. He remembered now. Just as he'd snuggled down into his bed and dozed off to the comforting baritones of the thunderstorm rolling out of the foothills, his phone had rung. It was Jack. SG-1 was being recalled to the base. Something about SG-9 going missing, and a search and rescue mission. Half-asleep, uncaffeinated, Daniel had begrudgingly accepted Jack's offer to give him a ride.

"You okay?" Jack repeated, removing his hand from Daniel's arm and simultaneously turning on the air conditioner and cranking up the heat in a joint effort to battle the condensation and the cool night air.

Daniel scrubbed a hand across his face. "Dream." At a look from Jack, he frowned and straightened his glasses. "Okay . . . nightmare then," he acquiesced.

Jack nodded and glanced in the side mirror before slipping the truck in gear and pulling onto the road. "You seem to be having a lot of those lately."

"And how would you know that?"

Jack looked at him then back at the road. "It's okay, Daniel. It happens to everybody."

In the glow of the dashboard, he studied the hardened jaw. The defiant brow. Jack had lied to him. Well . . . he'd asked Teal'c to lie to him, which was basically the same thing. "If that's supposed to make me feel better, it's not working," he said petulantly.

Jack's jaw was sliced by a humorless grin. "Since when have I said something just to make you feel better?"

"Oh, right. It's what you *don't* say that's supposed to placate me." The hard smile disappeared, and Daniel turned to stare at the darkness outside the window with a guilty flush of satisfaction.

"Daniel . . ."

"I don't want to talk about it."

True to form, Jack closed his mouth and concentrated on negotiating the rain-slick curves. The dark and the rain and the silence formed a suffocating sheath around them, and Daniel was forced to count the blurry, green mile-markers as proof that time marched on. Six. Seven. Eight. Ni-

"Why did you tell Teal'c to lie to me?" Rain slackened in anticipation of an answer that wasn't coming. Turning from his study of Jack's reflection in the passenger window, Daniel stared over at the real thing. "She's my wife."

"I know that. And, for the record, I didn't ask Teal'c to lie to you," Jack quietly offered.

"You told him to keep his mouth shut. It's the same thing." Jack refused to rise to his own defense. "I had a right to know." Daniel felt his anger building in the face of Jack's calm detachment. "Why don't you say something, for God's sake?"

Jack blinked and his grip on the steering wheel tightened. They were the only indications the man felt anything. That he'd even heard Daniel's impassioned plea. Just as Daniel started to turn back to the window, Jack's flat voice stopped him. "What do you want me to say? Do you want me to apologize? Is that it?"

"That might be good. For starters."

"And, just what do you want me to apologize for, Daniel? For trying to spare you? For trying to postpone your misery a little while?"

"I'm a grown man. I can decide for myself when I need sparing and when I don't." Jack briefly glanced at him, his dark eyes hard and unforgiving. "*What*?"

"For crying out loud, look at yourself."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means you're a mess, that's what it means. When's the last time you had a good night's sleep? Or a decent meal?"

Daniel pressed his elbow hard against the passenger door and stared past the glittering rivulets streaming down the windshield. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Bullshit," Jack mumbled. "You know exactly what I'm talking about. Ever since we got back from that damned caveman planet . . .P3 . . .PX . . ."

"The Land of Light," Daniel supplied out of habit.

"Yeah. That one. Ever since we got back, you've been acting like a damned . . . Neanderthal."

Jack's turn of phrase might have been funny – ironic – under different circumstances, instead Daniel paled. He glared at his friend and shivered as an inexplicable rush of pure fear surged through him. "What the . . . what did you mean by that?" When Jack didn't immediately answer, irrational fury replaced the fear. "Just what the fucking hell did you mean by that?" he yelled.

Jack frowned at him in obvious concern then turned his attention back to the road. "What do you think I meant? You can't sleep. You don't eat. One minute you're Mr. Meek and the next . . . listen, Daniel, I know you're worried about Sha're. I am, too. But, you have to keep some perspective here. And, you can't give up. You can't just-"

"I haven't given up."

"Then what?"

"I just . . .," Daniel shook his head and stared down at the hands curled loosely on his thighs. He felt disconnected. It was like looking at the world through someone else's eyes. "I can't stop thinking about what she must be going through. Wondering where she is. If she's . . . if he's . . . ."

"Don't. Just . . . think about something else."

"It's not that easy, Jack."

A calm hush settled over them as Jack eased the truck towards the guardhouse at the entrance to the base. Flashing their ID's to a young MP wearing a dark-colored rain slicker and carrying a rifle, Jack pulled into the fenced-off compound and parked the pick-up between Sam's sports car and a beat-up SUV. He reached for the keys then stopped and looked at Daniel.

"I know it's not easy. But, you just have to keep moving forward. I promise you-"

"We won't stop looking," Daniel interrupted. He nodded his head wearily. "I know, Jack. You don't have to keep saying it."

"I know I don't. I just want you to know they're not empty words." When Daniel looked at him, Jack's gaze hardened. "I will put an end to this . . . one way or another."

Daniel flinched. "How?" he breathed.

Hesitantly, Jack looked away and removed the keys from the ignition. Daniel knew he was naïve about the things Jack had done. The things he was capable of. But even he could read the answer in Jack's reticence. His stomach muscles clenched and he swallowed bile which burned the back of his throat.

"You could do that?" he said without judgment.

Jack stared down at hands which toyed with the key chain. "Yes." Sniffing slightly, he pocketed the keys and rested a hand on the door handle. "You'd be surprised at what I can do. Or not do." Jack looked at him, and smiled grimly at Daniel's frown. "Evil is in the intent. Not the act or the inaction."

"You really believe that?"

"I have to." He chuckled dryly. "What do you think keeps me sane?" When Daniel didn't respond, Jack grew serious. "What I believe, Daniel, is we all have a dark side. Even you. It's just a matter of finding it, mapping it out, and figuring out how to make it work for you."

Daniel turned away and stared out the windshield at the diamond patterns of the high, wire fence. The rain had stopped.

* * * * *

Samantha Carter shoved the tube of sunblock into a pocket of her BDU's and glanced around to make sure she'd stowed all of her personal belongings either back in her locker or in her pack. Running her fingers through her wet hair, she picked up the damp towel from the bench and tossed it into the clothes hamper. As she turned back to her pack sitting on the bench, there was a soft knock on the locker room door.

"Come."

The door opened and Teal'c entered. "Captain Carter." He nodded a greeting at her before moving to his locker and stashing something inside it. Feeling a familiar, as-yet subtle cramping in her abdomen, Sam dug in her pack to make sure she'd packed tampons. The guys had no idea how easy they had it. Assuring herself she was prepared for the worst, she looked up to discover Teal'c watching her.

"What?"

He studied her a moment, his face as unreadable as ever. "Are you angry at me, Captain Carter?"

"Angry?" Puzzled, Sam frowned at the somber alien. "Didn't we just have dinner together last night? What on Earth makes you think I'd be angry with you?"

"About the events which transpired on P3X-797."

"P3 . . . ." Sam's mind raced, sorting through the planet designations which everyone else found confusing. "The Land of Light? Teal'c, I have no idea what-"

"I am referring to the taking of the native girl, Melosha."

"The . . . taking." Sam swallowed "Oh." She glanced down, busying herself with her pack.

"You are angry."

"No." She forced a tight smile his way. "You had nothing to do with the attack on that girl, Teal'c. Why would I be angry with you?"

"Because I did nothing to prevent it. To help her."

"It wasn't your call to make," she quietly reassured him.

There was a long pause during which she concentrated on straightening the contents of her pack. Blinking, she focused her attention on the trivial, the mundane, and not on the large alien who was silently studying her. She felt his gaze. She sensed his concern. And, for some inexplicable reason, she finally found herself churning with the emotion of which he'd accused her. She stopped what she was doing, and stared back at him.

"Was there something else?"

"Captain Carter, the customs of your people are new to me. While the Jaffa and the Tau'ri share many things in common, it appears there are a great many more things about which we would differ."

Sam smirked. "Such as . . . how you treat your women?"

Teal'c's eyebrow rose. "I was referring to the manner in which we treat the spoils of war."

"Well, we don't consider human beings 'spoils of war.'"

"I have been made aware." He turned as if to leave then stopped and looked at her. "When we were on P3X-797, I did not know the behavior of the Touched was," he seemed to search for the right word, "unacceptable, or that you would find it disturbing. It was not until I met with Doctor MacKenzie that I began to understand this manner of sexual intercourse is not considered customary on your world."

"Yeah, well, we try not to make a habit of rape. Although, you might not know it from the statistics."

Teal'c's only reply was a frown.

"What?"

"If the Tau'ri disapprove of . . . rape, why did O'Neill not allow you to interfere in order to save the native girl?"

Sam snorted softly and shoved a rolled up pair of socks deep into her pack. "When you find out the answer to that one, Teal'c, let me know, would you?"

Teal'c cocked his head. "Indeed, I will, Captain Carter."

Scrubbing a hand through her hair once more, she looked up to find him still watching her closely. Sam sighed as she studied the immoveable form of the large Jaffa. "Yes?"

"Do not concern yourself with your safety."

Sam's heartbeat fluttered. "*Excuse me*?"

"I will not allow any harm to come to you."

She forced steadiness into her voice. "Well, thank you, Teal'c, but I really don't need looking after. I can take care of myself."

Sensing her anger, Teal'c's shoulders dropped slightly. "I apologize. I did not mean-"

"I know what you meant," she replied too quickly. Then, taking a deep breath, she banked her raging emotions by reminding herself this man was an alien. He didn't know her. He couldn't know the effect his words would have on her. She forced a smile. "I know what you meant," she repeated more kindly. "And, thank you. But, it's not necessary. Now, if you don't mind, I should finish packing."

* * * * *

Jack looked through the binoculars, studying the pathetic scene below them. Three men staked out; hundreds more slaving under a killing sun. All condemned for the sake of yet another false god. "I'll be back in 30 minutes."

"If you are thinking about rescuing Conner . . ." Teal'c began.

"Net yet. Captain? When the times comes, I'll need your help getting in the front door." She'd said it herself – she knew how Hanson thought. How he operated.

"I'm prepared for that, sir."

He hurried away from his team, keeping a low profile as he jogged north and west along the edge of the cliff. Hiding behind sparse plant life which daily defied massive doses of radiation, he submerged himself in the familiar, welcome rush of adrenaline. It was a natural part of human physiology which he'd been taught to identify and to use to his advantage during his Special Forces training. He'd lost count of the number of times it had saved his life. The lives of his teammates. Adrenaline was powerful stuff. It could be overwhelming, paralyzing you as easily as it could cause you to panic. But, if you learned to channel it, it could hone your vision, sharpen your aim, and clear your thinking. Through the years, Jack had mastered his body's responses, he'd learned to use what nature provided, and thanks to continual training, he'd managed to retain what he'd learned in covert ops.

Speaking of which . . . did they really think he'd hadn't heard them?

Dropping silently behind a boulder, he stared dispassionately into the pit of inhumanity sprawled at his feet, and mentally replayed Carter's and Daniel's conversation regarding the 'lunatic fringe' and the fact the government took advantage of its soldiers' craziness. Carter had attributed Hanson's problems to 'too many years of black ops.' And, Daniel had readily agreed. 'The crazier they are, the more extreme the situation they put them into,' he'd proclaimed with a backwards glance at Jack.

For crying out loud, he wasn't deaf and he wasn't blind. Besides, what the hell did those two know about the stuff he'd done anyway? How could a couple of geeky scientists profess to know what drove men like himself? If *he* only understood a fraction of what he did and why, how could *they* possibly have an inkling?

Pushing back his anger, Jack studied the activity below him. It was times like this, he missed his buddies in ops. They'd understood each other. There'd been an unspoken camaraderie between them he'd not found anywhere else, not even in his marriage. In the field, they'd counted on nothing but their training and each other.

Here, he wasn't sure who or what to count on other than himself. He had a disjointed team of unconnected members. A second-in-command who continually mystified him. One minute she was the consummate Air Force officer ready to follow him into the fray without question, and the next she was openly defying his orders. Daniel, who was currently so messed up, Jack seriously thought he should have grounded him. Granted, the man's emotional instability was understandable – his wife was in the hands of the damned Goa'uld. Still, he couldn't let his sympathy for Daniel's plight outweigh the good of the team. Then there was Teal'c. Of them all, he was probably closer to understanding Teal'c than any of the others, and vice versa. Like Jack, Teal'c had dished out a lot of crap in his time. And, although they'd never discussed it and never would if he had anything to say about it, Jack was pretty sure he wasn't the only one who'd been on the receiving end of a few rounds with some fucked up torture-mongers.

Wiping sweat from his eyes, Jack pulled his boonie hat lower over his face, blinked to clear his vision, and carefully moved closer to the edge of the scree-covered outcropping. Believing he and Teal'c were a lot alike had contributed to his surprise when Teal'c had approached him last night after the others had turned in. Talking had never been his forte – just ask Sara. But, at least with her, he'd had incentive. Last night, when he'd seen Teal'c quietly walk over and sit down on the ground a few feet away, Jack had felt something in his gut shift uncomfortably. He could have immediately come up with a list of about eight hundred and thirteen things he'd rather do than have a chat-fest with a former First Prime. Just as he was thinking it was time to find a quiet corner, pull out his pocketknife, and start digging for that ingrown toenail, Teal'c broke the silence.

"O'Neill, I continue to learn things about your people."

Jack grimaced and stared out into the darkness. "Yeah," he whispered, "we're a complex crowd."

"Indeed," Teal'c softly replied. "I spoke with Doctor MacKenzie."

He looked over at the Jaffa. "Well, I guess I spoke too soon, huh?" When Teal'c merely cocked his head, Jack smiled to show he was kidding . . . sort of. "Just promise me you won't judge the rest of us by him."

Teal'c's frown softened, something Jack had learned was the equivalent of a smile. "You have my word." After a moment of listening to Daniel's soft, asthmatic snoring, Teal'c looked at Jack. "May I ask a question about your methods of war?"

"Sure."

"When the Jaffa are at war, humiliating the enemy is a common practice."

"Yeah, well, it's not unheard of on Earth either."

"And, yet, the Tau'ri no longer engage in this practice."

Jack shook his head. "That's not true." He pondered the best way to explain it, and settled for, "Officially, it's frowned on in most cultures. Unfortunately, I haven't seen a war yet where it didn't happen. You have soldiers living on the edge. They're exhausted and hungry; missing their homes and their families; scared shitless. Emotions and tempers run rampant. Sometimes, even with the best of men and the best of intentions, things get out of hand." Jack smiled grimly. "It goes on all the time, Teal'c. It just rarely sees the light of day. Personally, I suspect everyone – combatants and non-combatants – prefer it that way."

"To what end?"

Jack shrugged. "So they can go on pretending. Pretending their sons and daughters, husbands and wives, are more honorable than the enemy." He shifted his rifle and squinted into the thick canopy of the surrounding trees. "Truth is, we'd all like to think our enemies are beyond redemption and our heroes are perfect."

"Perhaps you are correct." Teal'c's gaze followed Jack's into the blur of the dark forest. "I have done many things I would not have thought myself capable of doing," he quietly confessed. "Things I have come to regret."

What could he say? Jack didn't move. He didn't speak.

"I have taken innocent lives. Destroyed families, homes, villages. I have struck fear into the hearts of children, and into the hearts of their parents as they begged for the lives of their offspring. I have raped, pillaged, and destroyed." Jack was aware of Teal'c's rigid posture as he quietly added, "All in the name of a false god."

He wanted to get up and walk away, pretend this conversation hadn't happened. But, he couldn't. Teal'c deserved better. Clearing his throat, Jack tried not to fidget. "You were a slave. You had no choice."

"Every man has a choice. Even a slave." Teal'c sighed softly, as if hesitant to continue. "But, I believe you are aware of the things I have done without my telling you. And yet, you stand by me. Why?"

Jack squinted into the darkness and shrugged again. "I don't care what you've done. All that matters is who you are now."

He saw Teal'c move and thought he was leaving, but the man merely shifted his weight and laid his staff weapon across his knees. "On Chulak, in the holding pen, I sensed your strength. Your determination. For your people and the others." Teal'c made a soft noise that might have been a chuckle. "When you stepped forward, when you appealed to me . . . I should have killed you."

"Yeah? So why didn't you?"

"I have given that much thought."

"And?"

"Long ago, Master Bra'tac – my teacher – planted within me the seeds of doubt regarding Apophis and those like him. But, then I was named First Prime. I was proud to be chosen, and I grew accustomed to being feared and obeyed. I hardened myself to those who would plead for mercy. Then, you called out to me. Not for mercy, but for my help. As if we were equals. At that moment, I realized I had been awaiting your arrival for many years." Teal'c smiled – an honest-to-God, genuine smile. "We are as brothers, O'Neill."

Embarrassed, Jack returned the smile. "Thanks, T. Really." He stretched out a hand and patted Teal'c on the arm for emphasis.

Teal'c nodded and turned back to face the forest. "So . . . you do not believe in humiliating your enemy, O'Neill."

"Huh?" Surprised by the sudden u-turn in the conversation, Jack regrouped. "Well, no. I mean, I think it's unnecessary. Unless, of course, the enemy has just whipped your sorry ass," he joked.

"Why then, when we were on P3X-797 – the Land of Light," Teal'c clarified, "why did you not allow us to stop the attack on the girl, Melosha? In the eyes of the Tau'ri, is not 'rape' the lowest form of humiliation?"

Jack frowned over at the man beside him. "Excuse me?"

"I said, why did you not allow-"

"I heard you the first time. I'm just . . . why are you asking me this now?"

"Doctor MacKenzie wished to speak of the incident and-"

"MacKenzie," Jack muttered. "I should have known."

"And Captain Carter remains disturbed by the incident."

Jack glanced over his shoulder towards the tent where Carter slept. "She does?"

"Yes, although she attempts to hide it." When Jack stared off into the darkness, Teal'c prompted, "There was a reason you did not wish to interfere."

"Yes," he answered absently.

"At the time, I believed it was because the man was merely taking what was his due, but I have been assured by Doctor MacKenzie and by Captain Carter that the man's behavior was inappropriate. Therefore, I am curious as to-"

"Teal'c," Jack held up a hand, silencing him. Removing his boonie hat, Jack scrubbed a hand through his hair. "I . . . it's just . . .," he sighed and shook his head. "Sometimes you just have to stand back and let things happen. Even bad things. Let's just leave it at that. Okay?"

Teal'c had studied Jack closely, then nodded before quietly slipping into kelno'reem.

Now, ten hours later, in the deadly light of day, his own words echoed back at him from the pit of suffering created by two of his own men. Silently moving behind a small boulder, Jack lifted his rifle and peered through the scope to get a closer look. All three men tied to the posts looked bad, but it was Conner on whom he concentrated. He'd have to slip in, rescue Conner, then return to deal with Hanson and Baker when the time was right. Until then, it was a waiting game.

He could only hope Carter wouldn't let her feelings for Hanson get in the way of getting the job done. He didn't think she would, but then again, he hadn't realized until last night that she'd been bothered by the incident on the Land of Light. Apparently, he was no better at reading her than he'd been at reading Sara.

But, as irritated as he was that he'd not noticed what was happening with his second-in-command, it bothered him more that MacKenzie had been allowed to pry the lid off the whole incident in the first place. Left alone, it could have been forgotten by now. He'd tried to tell Hammond it was a mistake letting the psychiatrist dip his filthy hands into things that were nobody's business. All it did was muddy waters that were murky to begin with. And, as soon as SG-1 got back home and he presented himself for his next mandatory shrink session, he planned on expressing his heartfelt gratitude to the bastard quack.

Without feeling, Jack turned away as Baker began savagely beating one of the native men into submission. Watching innocent humans suffer while he sat back and did nothing wasn't pleasant, but he'd learned the hard way there were worse things. Much worse. Hurrying back towards his team, Jack smiled to himself. Wouldn't MacKenzie just love to get his hands on that little piece of O'Neill wisdom?

* * * * *

"Colonel O'Neill, have you ever heard of generalized anxiety disorder?" He watched carefully for any flicker in the mask of neutrality the man wore before he continued. "Generalized anxiety disorder, or GAD, as it's referred to, is characterized as chronic, uncontrolled and pervasive low-level anxiety and worry. A person suffering with this disorder may experience difficulty sleeping. They may become uncharacteristically irritable, have muscle tension, sweating, restlessness, or an upset stomach. Have you been experiencing any problems with your concentration, Colonel?"

"Sorry, what were you saying?"

Surprised at O'Neill's seemingly endless capacity for sarcasm, MacKenzie quickly hid his amusement. "I'm serious, Colonel. You've been under tremendously stressful situations of late, even for someone with your background." He paused, allowing a moment for his words to sink in. "Are you experiencing any of the symptoms I described?"

"Only when I'm forced to come here." There was a dangerous glint issuing orders in O'Neill's eyes.

Ignoring the warnings, MacKenzie gave a level stare. "And why would that be?"

For the first time, anger broke the icy surface as Jack snapped, "Why do *you* think?"

"I asked you first." O'Neill's jaw hardened. For a moment, the doctor was sure he would express the retort he was obviously biting back. He was disappointed, however, when a slow, sarcastic smirk replaced the anger. "Colonel?" he prompted.

Long arms crossed his chest as Jack leaned back. "I have no idea."

"Oh, I think you do." Leaning back in his own brick red leather chair, the doctor mimicked his patient, crossing his arms. "Why don't I start this poker game, Colonel, and toss in the first card?" Nonplussed, O'Neill tilted his head and shrugged noncommittally. "I think you are a past master at PTSD. In fact, I'd be willing to bet you know the symptoms better than I do." Not expecting a response he continued, his voice carefully clinical. "Iran, Iraq. I could go back further. Nicaragua . . . Kosovo. Should I continue, or have I made my point?" A palatable fury expressed itself in a single, slow blink. MacKenzie responded with a taut smile. "I'll take that as a yes."

"What'd ya want from me, MacKenzie?"

"I'm not trying to rehash your past, Colonel O'Neill. The fact that you've been able to overcome these experiences helps me to appreciate the depth of your psychological strength."

"Bullshit."

"I'm quite serious. Only a man of great mental resilience could have endured the things you've been forced to experience in the line of duty. Not to mention the death of your son."

"Don't," Jack spat. "Don't go there."

"Very well, Colonel. We'll consider that particular topic off limits – today. What concerns me is your mental state now. You and your team just experienced firsthand what can happen when mental instability is left untreated. Look at Jonas Hanson – a seemingly stable, capable team leader."

"I'm not Hanson, and I sure as hell don't have a god complex."

"And I'm very sure neither did Hanson. In fact, Colonel, I believe you and Captain Hanson had quite similar backgrounds."

"So what are you saying? That I'm going to go wacko and take out my team? Because-"

"I'm not suggesting that at all," MacKenzie interrupted smoothly. "In fact, you've proven numerous times your willingness to protect your team even at the cost of your own safety."

"Damn straight."

"But, you are under inordinate pressures, as the leader of SG-1 and the second-in-command of this base. Sharing your feelings is not a sin, Colonel O'Neill. Despite the demands of your special operative training and the all-encompassing need for secrecy your career may have drilled into that thick skull of yours, no man is an island. Perhaps Hanson wouldn't have stooped to murdering his own men and enslaving a people if he'd been willing to express some of his fears." He stopped – waiting, hoping he'd said something to break through the iron will.

"I'll think about it."

"You do that, Colonel." It was a start.

* * * * *

"I understand you distinguished yourself bravely under an extremely difficult situation, Captain."

"Well, I . . .," MacKenzie watched as her cheeks flushed. "I just did what I had to, sir. We all did," Sam added quickly.

Glancing down at the open file, the doctor said off-handedly, "I see that you and Captain Hanson were engaged."

"No, sir. I mean, we were – at one time – but we broke it off – I did – the engagement – I broke off the engagement before . . .," Sam stammered, the flush deepening.

"Yes, Captain, I understand. And yet, this must have added a great deal of pressure to an already difficult situation." MacKenzie watched carefully as she acknowledged the validity of his comment with a slight shrug and silence.

"I knew I could take care of myself, and I knew the colonel, Teal'c and Daniel would be there if I got in trouble," she finally admitted.

"Did Colonel O'Neill tell you that?"

"Not in so many words. But, he didn't have to. He trusted me to carry out my part, just like I trusted him to do whatever he needed to in order to complete the mission and get us all back home safely."

"I see. You trusted." MacKenzie leaned forward, his eyes boring into hers. "What makes this situation different than the one on the Land of Light?"

A frown puckering her forehead, Sam looked at him, clearly confused. "I don't understand. The two incidents weren't connected at all."

"Weren't they, Captain?" The leather chair squeaked softly in the silence as the doctor leaned back. Cupping his hands, he watched her process his line of thought.

For long moments, it seemed Sam had forgotten the psychiatrist's presence. "I felt helpless," she admitted softly. "Standing there, just waiting for her to be raped – waiting for the colonel to stop it and knowing he wasn't going to. She was being raped and I was the one feeling helpless. But, when I was facing Jonas, I knew I wasn't helpless anymore – had never been. Even when I didn't shoot him and he was taunting me, I was in control because I was part of a team."

"A team that you . . .," MacKenzie interjected quietly.

"Trusted." Sam's eyes widened. "I forgot that, or I was still trying to learn it on the Land of Light, wasn't I?"

"Learning to trust is an ongoing process, Captain. Whether or not you take the next step is up to you. It's a personal choice you must make for yourself."

"I told Teal'c that, when he asked me about why I do what I do. I told him it was a choice I made."

"And?"

Sam met his gaze with a tentative smile which seemed to gain strength with each passing moment. "I'm ready to move on."

* * * * *

"Teal'c, I'd like to ask you a few questions about how you feel since becoming part of the SGC."

"I will gladly answer your questions if I can, Doctor MacKenzie."

Glancing at his notes while garnering his thoughts, MacKenzie looked up and found himself staring into the Jaffa's dark eyes. He was surprised to see not secrecy and cunning, but intelligence and wisdom. He wondered when this change had occurred, and was on the verge of making a cautious comment when it suddenly occurred to him perhaps he should look within himself to discover the origin of this transformation. Promising himself a hard session of honest self-examination, MacKenzie cleared his throat and began. "Earth is quite different from your planet – Chulak, I believe – is it not?"

Tipping his head in acquiescence, Teal'c answered calmly. "It is."

Better prepared this time for his patient's characteristically brief answers, the doctor quickly asked, "Could you please tell me how?" The temptation to plug the Jaffa's concise comments with rhetoric of his own was appealing, but he bit his tongue and waited.

The room was filled with silence, as Teal'c considered his answer. MacKenzie was amazed to find the quiet comfortable. He relaxed and leaned back, uncharacteristically content to allow this session to play out in its natural order rather than his normal more formal, orchestrated format. He was almost surprised when Teal'c broke the tranquil silence. "Chulak and the land of the Tau'ri are so completely different that I struggle to know where to begin. Perhaps it would be easier had you asked in what way our worlds are the same."

"Let's say I did," MacKenzie interjected quietly with a smile.

Teal'c tipped his head, surprising the doctor by sharing his amusement before answering with customary seriousness, "Honor and respect are the highest prizes one can possess."

"Teal'c, I find myself surprised by your words today, and yet I'm intrigued. What exactly do you mean when you speak of respect as being a prize?"

"From infancy, Jaffa are taught to serve the Goa'uld. This service is above question. It is a calling, a duty, the purpose for my people. Few are called into the higher ranks of First Prime. It is an honor of which most only dream. It is an honor most would willingly kill or be killed attempting to attain."

"And you were chosen?"

"I was. It was only after I achieved my goal and became First Prime of Apophis that I discovered the respect I hungered for came with teeth of its own."

"You discovered it was a tradeoff?" MacKenzie paraphrased, intrigued by what Teal'c was sharing.

"I did. In order to earn respect, I was forced to commit atrocities at the whim of a false god. In doing these acts, the respect I had for my own actions was eaten away. It was not until I met O'Neill that I had hope of finding balance between thoughts and actions."

Puzzled, MacKenzie interrupted. "Colonel O'Neill? How in the world did he help with mental balance?"

"O'Neill provided a path in which I was fighting for truth. He allowed me the honor of becoming part of his team, entrusting me to fight as an equal beside Captain Carter and Daniel Jackson."

"It means a lot to you being on SG-1, doesn't it, Teal'c?"

"It does. The men and women who serve to protect this planet from the Goa'uld have taught me much. I greatly respect their dedication and sacrifice." Perhaps it was his imagination, but MacKenzie could have sworn the Jaffa actually spoke with emotion in the simple declaration.

"I believe you've taken a huge step towards another kind of respect."

"And what would that be, Doctor MacKenzie?"

"We call it self-respect here on Earth."

* * * * *

Looking at the bloodshot eyes and haggard expression the man wore, MacKenzie immediately lay aside the less direct techniques he normally used in opening his sessions. It was time for a straightforward approach. "Doctor Jackson," he said sternly. Silently chastening himself when the man before him startled, he began again. "Daniel, I'm going to be blunt, and I need an honest answer. I'm not asking you if you're sleeping. The answer to that question is painfully obvious. What I want to know and what you're going to tell me is, what is it that's keeping you from sleeping?"

"Nothing," Daniel stammered, obviously not expecting the psychiatrist's question. "I'm sleeping, sort of. Some."

"Out of professional courtesy, I won't call you a liar, Doctor Jackson, but I will also not allow you to lie to me." Looking at the dark circles under the man's eyes, MacKenzie pressed on. "You can either tell me the truth now, or we can discuss it at your leisure when I report to General Hammond you are unfit for duty and hereby removed from SG-1." He let the ugly threat hang in the air between them, making no attempt to soften it.

"You can't." Daniel stared at him, his eyes wide, the hurt dark beneath the blue surface. "You can't pull me off the team. I have to keep looking for Sha're."

"It's your choice."

The men stared at each other, neither giving ground until MacKenzie began to think he had lost. Suddenly Daniel's head drooped in defeat. "Do you remember the Shakespearean character, Caliban?" His voice was haggard – harsh and hard – so different from the young man's normal speaking voice. For a moment, MacKenzie was reminded of his chain-smoking father's early morning growl.

"Caliban? My British literature is a bit rusty, I'm afraid. Wasn't he the witch's son in *The Tempest*?"

"That's right," Daniel nodded dully. "He was described as a brutish lout. A dark creature of the Earth – a monster. A monster with a poetic soul, but a monster nonetheless."

"Doctor Jackson, I'm afraid I'm not following you. What does Caliban have to do with you not sleeping?"

"Everything. It has everything to do with it." Daniel raised his head and looked at MacKenzie with a haunted expression. "Melosha and the Touched – you asked me about her – about them – before."

"I remember." Feeling as if he were trying to pick through the plot of a complex foreign film without the benefit of subtitles, MacKenzie struggled to follow the leap between the seemingly unrelated topics.

"In the play, Caliban threatens to rape Prospero's fifteen year-old daughter."

"Yes, Miranda. I remember, but I'm afraid I'm still not making the connection."

"Caliban was a monster," Daniel repeated. "I try not to think about it, but at night when I finally fall asleep . . . ."

"I can understand how you might feel that the Touched were like monsters. You found yourself in a nightmarish situation. Is that what you're trying to say?" His mind racing, MacKenzie reviewed the basics he knew, hoping to find the key to unlock whatever monster was haunting this man. "Help me to understand. Please, Daniel. I want to help you. Did they hurt you?" The ugly possibility suddenly occurred to him that the Touched might have attempted to assault the young man before O'Neill and the others arrived to rescue him. According to Doctor Jackson's own report and his personal research, it would not have been without precedence for such a sexual attack to have occurred. Even Captain Carter's behavior towards Colonel O'Neill while infected with the virus substantiated and gave credence to it.

"I can't," Daniel whispered, shaking his head. "I can't."

"And yet, you will," MacKenzie encouraged. "You can and you will, because whatever this is you're hiding from, it's eating you alive. Daniel, why did you refer to the Touched as the monster, Caliban? Did one of them attempt to assault you? Tell me."

"Not the Touched," he blurted, startling the doctor even though he'd been pushing for answers. "Me! I was the one. The monster. Caliban. When I was lost on the planet." Reaching behind the lenses of his glasses, Daniel rubbed his eyes hard before finally meeting MacKenzie's gaze. "I tried to rape that girl – Melosha. Her father had returned her to the Dark Side. I remember I . . . I tried . . .," taking a deep, shaky breath, Daniel frowned over at him. "Jack got there and stopped me, but I would have done it. Don't you get it, Doctor MacKenzie? I would have done the same thing to her that Apophis is doing to my wife. She wasn't a person. She didn't have a name as far as I was concerned. She was just an object to be used. What kind of monster does that make me? Caliban . . . would-be rapist of a girl."

"Young woman," the doctor corrected automatically, immediately chiding himself as self-loathing creased Daniel's face. Suddenly, Doctor Jackson's clinical overview of the event made perfect sense, and MacKenzie mentally censured himself for overlooking clues he should have caught when he'd read Jackson's original report. Given the sexually enhancing nature of the Broca virus, it should have come as no surprise. Doctor Jackson's libido was bound to have been in overdrive, just as his guilt factor over the entire incident was now.

As if to confirm the doctor's thoughts, Daniel confessed softly, "All this time, I could look down on the Goa'uld because of my so-called moral superiority. I could hate them for what they were." His voice broke into a ragged whisper as he added, "And then I found that I'm no different."

"That's where you're wrong. You are different. Even if everything you say you've done is true, how you're reacting now – the fact you feel such remorse – proves just how different you are. Daniel, I don't claim to know much about the Goa'uld, but what I've learned – through your reports and others' – tells me they're a race short on remorse."

"That's true," Daniel agreed, acknowledging the understatement.

"Have you told Colonel O'Neill about any of this? About how you're feeling?"

"God, no. He'd hate me. Jack would take me off SG-1 if he knew what I'd tried to do. He thinks I'm not sleeping just because of Sha're, not because of . . ." he gestured with one hand, unwilling to put into words again what he'd done, or attempted to do.

MacKenzie frowned, genuinely curious. "I was under the assumption the two of you were friends."

"We were – are – we are. It's just, we think differently. With Jack, things are black and white. On which side of the spectrum do you think attempted rape falls in Jack O'Neill's book, huh, Doctor? Can you tell me that? This whole virus thing is . . . ." His words melted into dark shadows.

"But, if your concern is based on what the Colonel thinks then why . . ." MacKenzie stopped. In his experience, when dealing with the mind, logic seldom stood a chance in the race against emotions and guilt. It was pretty obvious which was sprinting ahead in this case. It became his job to weight down those emotions – place just the right obstacles in his path – and give Daniel's natural logic a chance to catch up. "Doctor Jackson, a moment ago you said Colonel O'Neill stopped you. If that's the case, then he already knows, right?"

He watched as Daniel's brow puckered in frustration as he fought to find his way through what had to be, at best, foggy memories jumbled by the effects of the virus. "But, if he knows, then why hasn't he said anything?"

For a long moment there was silence as the doctor allowed Daniel time to reflect before he interjected quietly, "Could it be because he knew it wasn’t you trying to rape that girl, Daniel? Is it possible the colonel realizes it was the virus causing you to do something you would never even consider doing when in your right mind?" He paused, and then added gently, "Like his attack on you in the gateroom?"

"But, Jack attacked me because . . . ." Daniel stopped, his mouth gaping slightly as he processed the ramifications. Doctor Jackson was no fool; without question, he was an ardent, compassionate man, but certainly no fool, and MacKenzie watched as logic suddenly surged forward. "Jack told me about Sam in the locker room. He was upset. Even though he didn't want to let on, I could tell he was really bothered by what had happened. I tried to make a joke, but he was really worried about her."

"Just as Teal'c was worried about you and took complete responsibility for your having been captured by the Touched, to the point of requesting that O'Neill and Hammond punish him for his failure to protect you."

"I didn't know that."

"And, the fact that Colonel O'Neill's first order of business was to mount a rescue party for you once Doctor Fraiser had discovered the cure."

"Ah, no. I . . . ."

"Or, that Captain Carter insisted on being a member of that rescue party even though she was recovering from a stab wound."

"They were all there, when I came to with the Untouched. Jack, Sam and Teal'c were all there waiting on me to recover."

"Because that's what teammates do, Daniel. Perhaps the truth of the matter is, Colonel O’Neill has known what happened all along, and he hasn't mentioned it because, to him, it isn't important. To him, his team and the people on it are what matter most."

"So, what you're trying to say is that being on SG-1 is about more than searching for Sha're. It's about being part of a whole." Daniel seemed to look inward before continuing. "Maybe I should take my cue from Jack in this instance. In his own way, he's been showing me the answer all along – telling me to let go of something I had no control over, and that it's not just me I'm effecting." Daniel gave a tentative, pained smile. "I'm not on my own."

Satisfaction creased MacKenzie's face as he nodded. "That's right, Daniel. You're not alone. None of you are. You're a team."

* * * * *

"Daniel."

Daniel Jackson had to strain to hear the soft voice coming through the receiver of the telephone.

"Ja-"

"Don't!" the voice quietly demanded. "Don't say my name."

Frowning over at Carter and Teal'c, who were gathered around the computer in his lab, Daniel turned his back to them and lowered his voice, "What's going on?"

"Are Carter and Teal'c there with you?" Jack whispered.

"Uh, yeah. Is something wrong?"

"I need your help."

"Our help?" Hearing Carter say his name, Daniel turned and looked at his teammates. They looked worried and to be honest, he was a little concerned himself. Daniel pointed at the phone and mouthed 'Jack.' "Where are you?"

"I – I can't say. Not over the phone."

"What's going on?"

There was a long pause. "Listen, Daniel, I need you to do exactly as I say. No questions asked. Okay?"

Feeling a knot of dread building in his stomach, Daniel gripped the phone tighter. If he still harbored any ill feelings towards Jack, they immediately vanished. This was the man who'd risked a court martial covering up the fact that Daniel Jackson was alive and well on Abydos. Without hesitation, this man had taken him home when Daniel had been returned to Earth lost, alone and grieving. Jack had proven time and again he would do anything for his friends. And as far as Daniel was concerned, that went both ways. "What do you need?"

"Do you remember when the SGC had that little training session a month or so ago?"

"The foothold rehearsal." Daniel swallowed. "There's a foothold situation?" His heart racing, he tried to concentrate on Jack's desperate whispers as he struggled to ignore Carter's frantic hand-signals and requests to hand over the phone.

"Remember where I told you to go if that ever happened?"

Puzzled, Daniel mentally fumbled through the things Jack had drilled into him since his return from Abydos. "You mean the ac-"

"Don't!" Jack groaned softly. "Geez, Daniel. Don't *say* it, for crying out loud. Just get Carter and Teal'c and meet me there in five minutes. Whatever you do, don't let anyone see you go there and if anyone asks, you haven't seen or heard from me. Got it?"

Despite the fact Jack couldn't see him, Daniel nodded. "Yeah. I've got it. Ja-," he stopped himself just in time. "Are you okay?"

"I have to go. And, Daniel?" Jack grew so quiet Daniel could hear the sound of his own rapid breathing. "I'm counting on you."

"We won't let you down."

Six minutes later, Daniel, Carter and Teal'c slipped into the access shaft on level 16. Armed with a zat, Jack was waiting for them. He looked pale in the brief glimpse Daniel had before Teal'c silently closed the metal door to the corridor. As soon as he heard the sound of the latch engage, Jack flipped on a miniature flashlight.

"Jack," Daniel whispered, "are you-"

Jack placed a finger to his lips indicating the need for silence. Slipping one end of the small flashlight between his teeth, he turned and began climbing the ladder. In silence, his team followed. Daniel wasn't sure how much time had passed when he felt Jack stop climbing. His arms and shoulders trembling with fatigue, he craned his neck and tried to look past Sam towards their leader. He saw the small circle of the flashlight beam bob and weave drunkenly, he heard the sound of metal on metal, and then the loud, obnoxious screech as the heavy metal cover on the shaft was pushed back. He was greeted with the chill bite of fresh air and a faint circle of star-filled night sky, then they were on the move again.

Following in Sam's wake, Daniel grabbed the lip of the cement shaft and hefted himself up and over, falling clumsily into the surrounding prickly brush that obviously had never seen a mower. Landing on his knees, he stretched out his hands to catch himself. His left palm landed in something cold and wet, and his arm slipped out from under him. Thrown off-balance, he hit the ground chin-first. Groaning, his knees aching and his stomach roiling at the feel of the sticky substance coating his hand, he was struggling to get to his feet when someone grabbed him by the waist and helped him upright.

"Keep moving," Jack softly commanded in his ear. "Follow Teal'c."

Suddenly reminded of the seriousness of the situation, Daniel forced himself to keep up with the quiet shadows that were the Jaffa and Sam. Behind him, he could hear Jack lowering the cover of the access shaft back into place. Out of breath, Daniel lumbered along behind the others. Soon, Jack caught up with them and with a burst of energy Daniel envied, the man brushed by him, overtook Sam and Teal'c, and resumed point. He led them around the slope of a steep embankment then turned left and slid down a rocky slope until he reached a large outcropping that overlooked a meadow lit by the yellow glow of a full moon. Jack came to a sudden stop and turned back to await the arrival of the others. As Daniel slipped down the last five feet of the rough trail, showering Sam in a small hail of gravel, Jack tucked the zat gun inside his jacket and sank down against the bluff.

"Everyone okay?"

Daniel flinched at the sound of Jack's voice after the interminable silence. Huffing, still trying to get his heart rate and breathing back to normal, Daniel admired the ease with which Teal'c said, "O'Neill, what has occurred?"

"Did anyone see you leaving?"

"No, sir," Sam panted.

"You're sure no one saw you? No one asked about me?"

"Jack," Daniel gasped, swallowed dryly and scrubbed his sticky hand against his pants, "what's wrong? What happened?"

"What do you mean what happened?"

In the ample light of the moon, Daniel frowned over at Jack who had leaned back, pillowed his arms behind his head and was staring up at the clear sky, looking utterly at ease. Daniel felt foreboding settle over him as Sam and Teal'c joined him in frowning at their commander.

"Colonel, what's the big emergency? Who was after you?"

Jack squinted up at the sky then leisurely glanced over at them, his gaze finally settling on Daniel. "Didn't you tell them?"

"Tell them what?" Daniel flinched under Sam's and Teal'c's curious looks before facing Jack once more. "What the hell is going on here? Is there a foothold situation or not?"

Jack looked genuinely puzzled. "Foothold? What the hell made you think there was a foothold situation? Daniel, I told you, Makepiece was looking for me and I thought it best if we made ourselves scarce for a little while."

"Makepiece?" Daniel felt his ire building. "Jack, you said nothing about Makepiece."

"Yes. I did." He frowned. "I'm sure I did. Didn't I?"

"No, Jack. You didn't."

"Sir," Carter sounded as irritated as Daniel felt, "with all due respect, we just spent the last hour hour thinking there'd been an alien incursion, sneaking through the base, climbing sixteen stories on a ladder in the dark, and traipsing through weeds that are probably infested with fleas and ticks and God only knows what else. What the hell did we do that for?"

Jack grinned guilelessly. "For pizza." Leaning to his right, he reached under a small bush. "Oh!" Turning around, he held up a flat box and a six-pack. "And beer, of course."

There was a heavy silence punctuated only by the faraway yip of a coyote. Soon, they were surrounded with the eerie calls of the elusive canines. Shivering against the hair-raising sounds of the surrounding wildlife, Daniel cleared his throat. "You led us on this wild goose chase for pizza?"

"And beer," Jack said, proudly holding the six-pack aloft. "Don't you want to know where I got it?"

Sam groaned softly and clapped a hand to her forehead. While Daniel continued to try to wipe the mysterious substance from the palm of his hand, Teal'c slowly reached over and took the box from Jack. Opening it, he peered inside before pulling out a large slice of fragrant pizza. "From where did you acquire this, O'Neill?"

Jack grinned and popped the top on a can of beer. "Makepiece and his boys ordered in."

Reaching for a slice, Sam hesitated and groaned again. "Oh, crap. You didn't."

Jack beamed. "While the jarheads were arguing over whose turn it was to buy, I just helped myself."

Daniel accepted the box Sam passed to him. Staring over at Jack, he finally relented and pulled out a slice for himself. "You know he's going to kill you, right?"

"Only if he catches me, Daniel. Besides . . . give," Jack demanded, reaching for the box. "Besides, we have Teal'c on our side. He'll protect us, won't you, T?"

There was a brief hesitation before Teal'c nodded. "Perhaps."

Daniel laughed and Sam actually giggled.

"Come on, T," Jack insisted, "you gotta admit, it's worth the risk – getting out of the base. Seeing this." The hand holding the beer swept out dramatically, indicating the meadow below them and the mountains across the way.

"Gosh, Teal'c," Daniel admitted, "I forgot. You've never seen Earth before, have you?"

"I have not, Daniel Jackson."

Sam swallowed the last of her pizza and took a drink of beer, then imitated Jack and leaned back against the rocky slope. "This is nice, Colonel."

Jack grinned but said nothing.

"Yeah, Jack." Despite the tacky residue still clinging to his hand, Daniel smiled. "This is nice."

* * * * *

George Hammond sipped his drink and watched the game from the relative comfort of his cozy kitchen. Despite being muted by the double-paned, north-facing window, the squeals and laughter still had the capacity to draw a smile from him. Outside, a hot August sun bore down relentlessly on the tiring, sweaty players, and seared the grassy battlefield into a mere semblance of the verdant lawn he'd watered only this morning. Inside, the only battle was that waged between the central air conditioner and the oven. So far, it was a standoff but soon, the oven would be turned off and the refrigerated air – a concession to his daughter's summertime allergies – would once again reign.

He took another drink of iced tea, the glass chinking softly against his upper teeth when the oven timer let out a raucous peal demanding to be heard. Grumbling softly, he set down his glass and hurried to the oven. He turned off the timer and the oven, and pulled on the bright red oven mitts he'd bought just last month at the local Target store. He'd balked at buying them until his daughter had threatened to buy him a pair herself if she had to look one more time at the stained, ragged, yellow gingham mitts he insisted on using. He hadn't told her the reason he'd hung onto them for so long was because he remembered the day Barb had pulled them out of a plastic shopping bag and asked him if they didn't remind him of the curtains they'd had in that first little apartment off of Wilmont Avenue. Stupid as it might seem, every little thing that wore out and got replaced was just one less connection to the woman with whom he'd shared so much for so long. He missed her, and he wished he could go back to that moment in time when yellow gingham could have meant so much more.

They said it got better with time – the grieving – everyone had promised him that. But it hadn't. The grief hadn't changed. It was still raw and all-consuming; he'd just gotten better at hiding it, at staying busy. He'd learned to fill the hole left by his wife's death with little things – a fake smile, his work, gardening, his grandchildren. God, what he wouldn't give for Barb to watch them grow up.

Frowning at the sorry direction of his mood, George opened the oven door, welcoming the hostile heat that boiled out and slapped him in the face. As he pulled out the cookie sheet, the back door opened and the wayward threesome stumbled in the back door amidst a gale of giggles and groans.

"Oh, man, that smells great."

George smiled and set the tray on top of the stove, apple filling bubbling out of the store-bought concoction like sticky goo out of a witch's cauldron. But, instead of smelling evil and caustic, it actually smelled pretty damn good. Though it wasn't even a close second to one of Barb's famous peach cobblers. He missed those, too.

"See," Kayla snidely commented, "Uncle Jack was right. He said he could smell when pie was done."

"He was just pulling your leg." Tessa frowned up at her newest friend. "You couldn't smell it, could you, Uncle Jack?"

George laughed and tossed the offensive oven mitts into a drawer. "Uncle Jack, is it?" He glanced over at O'Neill who actually looked embarrassed.

"Uh, yeah. About that . . . ."

Smiling, he waved away his subordinate's concern. "Roll with it, 'Uncle Jack.' Although . . . you know what this means, right?"

Tentatively, Jack shook his head. "No, sir."

"Uncles are required to babysit for free," he chuckled.

Jack stared at him a moment, then smiled down at the two small lights of George's life. Groaning, Jack dramatically slapped a hand to his forehead. "It's a conspiracy. I should have known. I've been had by the shortest con artists this side of the Divide."

Kayla giggled and looked over at George, her eyes shining. "Uncle Jack's funny, isn't he, Grandpa?"

"Well . . .," George hesitated before finally conceding, "sometimes."

"Can we please have some pie?" Tessa asked, hugging George around the waist.

He leaned over and planted a kiss on her hair before saying, "Not yet. It's too hot. Why don't you and your sister go watch that movie we rented. The colonel and I have a couple of things to discuss."

"Okay, Grandpa."

The girls ran to the doorway leading to living room, then Kayla stopped and looked back at them. "You won't eat all the pie, will you, Uncle Jack?"

Jack grinned and held up two fingers. "I promise I'll save you some. Scout's honor."

Giggling again, the girls disappeared and George poured another glass of tea. Setting it down on the table, he and Jack sat down across from each other. As Jack stared out the window into the backyard, George studied the man's profile.

"I think you have a fan club."

The hard jaw softened and Jack smiled over at him. "They're great girls, sir. Gonna break a few hearts, I'll wager."

George laughed softly, his chest swelling with pride. "I tend to agree with you, Jack, but then, I'm a bit prejudiced."

Jack smiled, sipped his drink, and turned back to the window.

"Speaking of kids, Colonel, how are your 'kids' doing?"

Frowning, Jack glanced at him. "Sir?"

"SG-1."

"Oh." Looking down at his glass, Jack ran a long finger around the rim. "I had my doubts there for a while, sir, but I think we're going to be just fine."

George looked down at his own drink. He'd never had doubts. Well, not serious ones anyway. The minute he'd laid eyes on Jack O'Neill, he'd recognized the face, the attitude. It hadn't changed much since the day over thirty years before when a young, red-haired lieutenant had stared into those same hard brown eyes and stern features. A little less grey in the hair now maybe, but otherwise this Jack O'Neill was the spitting image of the man formerly known as Luke Skywalker, or James T. Kirk . . . take your pick. Smiling to himself, George took little comfort in the thought some things were inevitable. Pre-determined perhaps.

"Just fine," Jack softly reiterated.

George looked up and saw uncertainty in the set of the jaw and the line furrowing the high forehead. "Building a team takes time, Jack. You know that."

"Yes, sir."

Fumbling for the right words, George settled for, "I take it from your report, Captain Carter conducted herself quite nicely, especially considering her previous relationship with Captain Hanson."

Jack nodded and the furrow deepened, but he said nothing.

"And, it seems your instincts about Teal'c were justified."

Forcing a smile, Jack glanced at him. "He's a good man."

"I believe you're right about that. And about Doctor Jackson as well, apparently."

"How so?"

George shook his head. "I would never have thought the man I saw stumbling through the gate from Abydos would make such a quick adjustment to working with a military unit."

"Well, it's definitely been an . . . adjustment, sir," Jack admitted. "But, Daniel's okay. He needs this, General. And we need him."

Nodding, George studied the man across from him. "And what about you?"

"What about me?"

"How do you see yourself in all this?"

"I'm not sure I know what you're talking about."

George had to give it to the man – he could lay on the guileless act flawlessly. "You know why MacKenzie pressed me for these sessions, don't you, Colonel?"

In response, Jack refused to meet his eyes.

"Yes. That's what I thought. Mind if I ask?"

The eyes that met his were hard and unflinching. "Ask what, General?"

George couldn't help it, he snorted softly before sobering. "The incident on the Land of Light. The mission reports agreed on one aspect only – your refusal to intervene."

"That's right."

"I'd like to know why." When no response seemed forthcoming, Hammond gently added, "I think I have a right to know the motives behind my second-in-command's actions."

Jack seemed to weigh his choices before replying. "It was a simple command decision. I didn't see the need to risk my men by interfering with a local matter."

Hammond watched him closely, then downed the remainder of his tea. "Horseshit."

Jack frowned. "Sir?"

"What book did you pull that out of?" Jack glanced away and then back at him. George smiled. "Don't get me wrong, Colonel, I'm not questioning your decision. But your motives? I still haven't heard them."

Jack took a drink, set down the glass, toyed with it, and finally returned to staring out the window. "There were twelve of us. We were inserted behind enemy lines, instructed to make contact, grab as much intel as we could, and get out. I was the new man. My job was simple. All I had to do was keep watch while the rest of the boys swept through the village. Only problem was, the place was swarming with Palestinians. There was a woman with a baby. . . ." Jack grimaced and rubbed a thumb along his temple. "While I watched, she was cornered by a group of rebels. The kid was tossed aside, screaming, while they ripped the mother's clothes off. She was fighting, kicking, then . . . ." Throwing a glance towards the living room, Jack lowered his voice. "Then I heard her negotiating. Offering sexual . . . favors for the life of her child." George watched long fingers tighten around the glass; a vein throbbed in the center of Jack's forehead. "I couldn't just stand there and watch them rape her. As one of the men reached for his pants . . . I shot him."

This wasn't what he'd expected. Although he wasn't exactly sure what he had expected, it wasn't this. "Son, I know-"

"No, sir. You don't." Jack glared at him. "It was all an act. A set-up. The woman, the baby, the whole thing. And I fell for it. Exposed my team. Our weapons sergeant was killed, and our team leader was badly wounded. Because of me, sir. Because I interfered in something I should have left alone."

George looked down at the glass in his hand, turned it and watched as the polished cubes of ice clung to the inside of the glass. "Thank you," he simply said, and looked up at the leader of his premier team. "Thank you for telling me that."

Jack blinked, then nodded once.

"Grandpa," Kayla called as she burst into the kitchen, "can we have pie now?"

* * * * *

The doors slid open and Jack O'Neill stepped towards the elevator. "Ah crap."

"Nice to see you too, Colonel." Doctor MacKenzie gripped his briefcase and shuffled back into the corner allowing O'Neill the bulk of the elevator.

Jack hesitated, and for a moment the doctor was sure he'd allow the doors to shut without getting on. Finally, O'Neill gave an exasperated sigh and stuck out his hand to block the doors just before they closed. Purposefully ignoring the psychiatrist, he faced the numbered panel and silently watched the passing floor numbers.

"I heard you took my advice and spoke to General Hammond."

Although the words were spoken in a normal, conversational tone, they seemed to echo around the metal box before Jack scowled and answered, "Yeah, well, what can I say? I had a weak moment."

Despite the colonel's relaxed poise and blasé manner, MacKenzie sensed his statement had undeniably increased the tension between them. For long moments of strained silence, he mentally scrambled for any innocuous connection before the obvious suddenly struck him. "He didn't break your confidence, Colonel."

"Oh." The single word filled the void between them – dark, threatening, brooding.

"Hammond simply told me you had your reasons for reacting as you did during the whole Melosha incident on the Land of Light." O'Neill was so still he barely appeared to breathe. MacKenzie smiled wearily as he stared at the colonel‘s back. "The general chewed my ass royally when I pressed him for details. Said it was none of my damned business and you were completely justified in your decision and actions. Period." Sighing deeply, he added quietly, "I make my living reading people, Colonel O'Neill, and what I saw was a man who deeply respects and trusts you as an officer and, in all probability, as a friend. That's good enough for me."

O'Neill's stiff shoulders relaxed slowly. Echoing MacKenzie's sigh, he rotated to face the doctor. "Here's the deal, MacKenzie. You stay out of my way and out of my head, and we'll get along just fine."

"You're a difficult man, Colonel."

"Better men than you have said that."

MacKenzie snorted softly and shook his head. "You certainly don't make my job any easier."

Jack leaned back, resting his head on the smooth wall as he watched the numbers tick by. Closing his eyes, he smiled lazily. "And that would be my job."

* * * * *

MONDAY, AUGUST 25

--- TOP SECRET ---

From: Stephen MacKenzie, Colonel USAF, MD, PhD, Chief Physician Psychological Staff, Cheyenne Mountain

To: General George Hammond, CiCSG, Cheyenne Mountain

Cc: Captain Janet Fraiser, MD, CMO, Cheyenne Mountain

Re: SG-1: J. O'Neill, Colonel, IC SG-1; S. Carter, Captain, PhD, USAF, 2IC SG-1 ; D. Jackson, PhD, Civilian Advisor, Archeology, Linguistics, SG-1; Teal'c, Civilian, SG-1.

08/25, 1830 hours

Attached within, the documents as follows:
1) Follow-up to post mission report to P3X-797
2) Capsulation of sessions 8/15-8/24
3) Recommendation re: psychological and duty status of SG-1

Based upon multiple individual sessions, it is recommended the members of SG-1 be returned to full active status.

Continued team building sessions are recommended under the supervision and discretion of Colonel O'Neill.

Upon considering the benefits of developing cohesive cooperation between units, it is recommended that SG-1, J. O'Neill – team leader and SG-3, R. Makepeace – team leader, conduct periodic joint team building exercises.

Informal observation will continue to be conducted.

It is the opinion of this physician that despite individual issues which should be addressed in future psychotherapy sessions, SG-1 as a whole works as a highly effective corps. Each member brings a unique perspective and, therefore, an anomalous strength to the team as a whole. The psychodynamics of the team exhibit strong indications of an excellent outcome for a tightly cohesive unit.

* * * * *

Doctor Stephen MacKenzie took a deep breath of the crisp mountain air, relishing its freshness after a day of manmade substitute as he walked briskly towards his car. He was a simple man with simple pleasures. Few people knew him well enough to question his reason for parking on the far side of the base lot when his rank assured him a more coveted space. Had they asked, it was unlikely he would have felt compelled to share the unremarkable truth. After a busy day working within the confines of the human psyche, he found it freeing to walk in solitude, savoring an uncomplicated task which was so vastly different than negotiating his way through the human mind.

Even his wife might not have understood his need to dwarf himself on top of a mountain, beneath the heavens, finding wanton pleasure in his own insignificance in the whole of life. It was too easy for someone in his position to play God, and far worse to start believing it. Given the ramifications of SG-1's last mission, that was a path he was determined to avoid. He wasn't a fool, and SG team leaders weren't the only casualties of work-related stress disorders. This time in the parking lot which he used to unwind at the end of each day was a case of this physician healing thyself.

It was later than he normally signed out, but he'd felt it was important to wrap up the report and get it to Hammond. For a moment he cleared his mind, concentrating instead on the crunching sound of stray gravel on the asphalt beneath his feet. Streaks of vivid colors ripped through the growing dusk, rosy and warm in the cool evening air. Ah, a Colorado sunset – a perk to having worked late. MacKenzie couldn't bring himself to wax poetic about the crimson hues. He wasn't a man of poetry. It was enough to simply enjoy the sight, drawing pleasure from the beauty of Nature's display.

A single star claimed dominion of the sky. He wondered briefly if SG-1 had traveled there, before chiding himself with the knowledge it was probably Venus making her first appearance of the night. The first star of many. Like the trips through the Stargate itself. It had been an interesting week – exhausting, yet fulfilling. He'd discovered a lot about the members of SG-1, and even more about himself.

He admired Jack O'Neill, and that surprised him. First because of the man's capacity to be difficult, but mainly because there were few people who fell into that category. He even envied the man in a way – something which would have astonished the colonel had he known. O'Neill had a certain charisma buried beneath a smokescreen of quirks which made him impossible to ignore.

MacKenzie was under no self-illusion that his colleagues liked him. Even outside the SGC, within the confines of the hospital, he had few friends. Certainly, he was well respected in his field, but there were few, if any, who crossed the line into friendship. In his own way, he was as closed as O'Neill, and few made the effort to scale the walls of reserve he'd built throughout his life. Even the personnel within his own department shied away from his abrasively brusque personality. That was fine. He had no need or desire to change, even if he could at this point in his life. He'd learned long ago to squelch the dictate for people to like him, if indeed he'd ever had it. And yet, he admired O'Neill for his ability to make people care about him, as his team obviously did.

The relationships within SG-1 were like the sunset itself. MacKenzie surprised himself with the analogy, but somehow it seemed to fit. Each member added a unique hue to the mix, hues that were impossible to distinguish as they blended into the sum of the whole picture. O'Neill, Jackson, Carter, Teal'c: four strong individuals who were made stronger by association in a way not even they could see at this point. But he could. As an outside observer, he could see what this team could possibly become – if O'Neill played his cards right. And if anyone could do it, it would be Jack O'Neill. MacKenzie had faith in him.

In all likelihood, he would never tell O'Neill that. It would serve no purpose other than to embarrass the pragmatic officer. In fact, it would serve nothing more than to place yet another barrier between them. At this point, the two of them were just beginning to understand and accept the boundaries of the associated hostility within which they could work together.

MacKenzie would never have any desire to go off-world, but he was doing his part to fight the Goa'uld by helping to maintain the mental health of the personnel of the SGC. It wasn't glamorous and there was little glory. But, despite what many might think, it was necessary, and he was proud of the job he was doing. Setting his briefcase next to his car, the doctor fished out his keys. The shades of rose were deeper across the sky now – crimson to blood-red. Before long, the waning full moon would rise, killing the Technicolor show, but providing beauty in its own right. Through the chain link fence, he could make out the dark bulk of the surrounding evergreens. The night breeze wafted gently, carrying the scent of the forest, of life beyond the base. He wondered briefly if there were pines on other planets, then chided himself for the ridiculousness of his curiosity. He was obviously tired.

Tomorrow promised to be another busy day. In the first light of a new day, he'd arrive and fight on his own battlefronts contained inside the mountain, within the minds and actions of the men and women who worked there. He'd lost the battle with Hanson, but won a victory with SG-1. Battlefronts came in all sizes and shapes – within a mind scarred by the past, or on a distant planet surrounded by hostile aliens – and he'd been called on to be part of the fight. It was what he did, and as he'd told Daniel Jackson, he wasn't alone. None of them were. From Hammond to O'Neill, from Fraiser to Siler, each of them had a job to do. And they were a damn good team.

<Finis>

Authors' Note: Asking those two innocuous words 'What if . . .' is a dangerous and time-consuming business for us. Some 80+ pages later, we discovered the answer: First light precedes dawn. It is what matters most when men are in the field. Things hidden in darkness are revealed by first light. Dawn may be too late. So it is with the things which haunt us. BTW, we apologize in advance for taking liberties with the structuring of the Special Forces, but TPTB have muddied the military waters. We chose to stick with canon instead of the way things really are.

© May 2005 The characters mentioned in this story are the property of Showtime and Gekko Film Corp. The Stargate, SG-I, the Goa'uld and all other characters who have appeared in the series STARGATE SG-1 together with the names, titles and backstory are the sole copyright property of MGM-UA Worldwide Television, Gekko Film Corp, Glassner/Wright Double Secret Productions and Stargate SG-I Prod. Ltd. Partnership. This fanfic is not intended as an infringement upon those rights and solely meant for entertainment. All other characters, the story idea and the story itself are the sole property of the author.