Ten Years
Ten Years
by Katerina17
Summary: "Don't you ever wonder whether he's still out there?"
Category: Action/Adventure, Angst, Drama, Future Story, Hurt/Comfort
Season: Future Season
Pairing: Team
Rating: 13+
Warnings: adult themes, minor language, violence
Disclaimer: Stargate SG-1 and its characters are the property of Showtime/Viacom, MGM/UA, Double Secret Productions, and Gekko Productions. This story was created for entertainment purposes only. No copyright infringement is intended. The original characters, situations, and story are the property of the author(s).
Archived on: 07/19/05
"It's been ten years."
Her voice was calm, but he saw that her hands were shaking slightly as she lifted the mug of steaming coffee to her lips.
He sipped at his own coffee, savoring the soothing black liquid before speaking. "Yes," he said simply. "It has."
She didn't seem willing to let it go that easily. Not this time. She sat her mug down on the table with a solid thud. A little coffee splashed over the side, making a small puddle on the smooth white surface of the table. He felt his eyes drawn to it, and he stared with inexplicable fascination at this small flaw in the spotless order around them. Perhaps, his philosophical side mused, the spilled coffee was like a symbol of the shattered chaos lurking beneath the surface of their deceptively stable lives.
"Don't you ever wonder whether he's still out there?" Her voice trembled now, and, raising his eyes from the spilled coffee, he saw the expression that always meant she was trying hard not to cry.
"Yes," he said again, keeping his voice even. It wasn't easy. He wanted to cry just as much as she did.
"I mean, he could be floating around out there, drifting through the galaxy, homeless. He could be a slave or -- or a host." She was talking more for herself than for him, finally expressing the damning possibilities that had spent a thousand sleepless nights eating away at her mind like a cruel cancer. "Every time there's an unauthorized incoming wormhole -- "
"I know." His throat ached, and he took a quick gulp of coffee, succeeding only in burning his mouth. "I know."
He did know. He knew of biting his tongue until it bled to prevent himself from begging for the iris to be opened. He knew of endless seconds waiting for an impact, praying it didn't come.
He knew.
"Damn, I miss him." She leaned her elbow on the table, then scrubbed a hand through her short hair. "I miss so many little things about him, but I know I've forgotten so much. It scares the hell out of me."
"Me, too." Today she was the talker and he was the listener. There had been many times when the roles were reversed. "I can't really remember what color his eyes were," he ventured after a moment.
There was a small sob, followed by a hiccup. Her hands were covering her face, hiding the tears. "I can't either," she said finally, her voice choked.
He reached out and rubbed her shoulder gently, trying to help in some small way by providing the warmth of human touch. Blinking back his own tears was hard, but he did it, because today she needed him to be the strong one. Heaven knew she'd been strong for him plenty of times.
Finally she lifted her head and wiped at red-rimmed eyes and gave him a small, cheerless smile of gratitude. They finished their lukewarm coffee in silence.
Her voice was clearer but still wrenchingly sad when she spoke again. "If he's still out there, do you think he'll ever make it home?"
He stared at the bottom of his empty coffee cup, wanting so badly to believe in miracles but knowing that the odds were more than astronomical after all this time. "I don't know," he whispered. "I don't know."
Daniel Jackson and Samantha Carter sat in the empty commissary of Stargate Command, alone with their aching memories and with the fading specter of Jack O'Neill -- of the friend they had lost ten years before.
Kayda was stunningly beautiful, with brown eyes and dark golden hair. She was also alien, from a culture vastly different than his own. Daniel Jackson reminded himself of this repeatedly as the young woman led him toward the old Azarshan recordhouse.
Dust rose, drifting lazily through scattered beams of sunlight, as Kayda wrenched open the door. She waved an arm to indicate the room, saying with a faintly apologetic smile, "I am afraid no one has taken interest in these old writings for many years."
Daniel was fascinated by the extensive, albeit unorganized, collection of fragile parchment-like books. He stopped and took a slow look around, drinking in the aura of history exuded by the large brick building.
He spotted a number of books, stacked haphazardly on a dusty table in the corner, that looked far more modern. "What are these?" He asked, heading toward them.
Kayda trailed along behind him. "At one time, this building was also used to store lost or unclaimed books," she explained. "Of course, it ceased to serve that function as soon as the new recordhouse was built. These are the books that were never claimed."
Daniel picked one of them up, examining its cover thoughtfully. "How long ago was this old recordhouse shut down?" He asked.
Kayda looked thoughtful. "Oh ... eight years ago, I suppose." She laughed. "I should know. I was Apprentice Recordkeeper at that time. I became the Master Recordkeeper shortly after we moved to the new recordhouse."
Putting down the lost book, Daniel turned toward the records and ancient writings housed in this neglected little room. "Why were the old records not transferred to the new recordhouse?" He questioned, hardly able to believe the Azarshans' treatment of such valuable materials.
Kayda gave a small, one-shoulder shrug, an expression Daniel had noticed from a number of Azarshans. "There is not much interest in these manuscripts, unfortunately," she explained. "Most of us feel that all we need to know of our history is contained within the textbooks we study as children. These writings have long been neglected. I am glad you asked to see them." She checked the small, oval-shaped watch clasped to her wrist with a gold chain. "I am sorry to have to leave you so quickly, Daniel, but I need to get back to the current recordhouse."
"Oh, that's -- that's fine." He gave her a slightly distracted smile as he began perusing the ancient records. "Thank you for showing me here, Kayda."
"You are welcome, Daniel." He heard the door close softly behind her as she left.
Teal'c was with Sam, who had been escorted to a different part of town to look at some Azarshan 'doohickeys'.
Doohickeys. Damn it, why did he have to think that word now? His concentration immediately broken, Daniel looked up from the Azarshan records and sighed in frustration. Jack O'Neill had been gone for just over ten years now, but he still popped up in Daniel's head constantly, almost as if he had never left.
The sheer bizarreness of Jack's disappearance had long haunted Daniel, as well as his two remaining teammates. In mid-summer of the year 2003, shortly after Daniel had descended, SG-1 had visited a small, primitive planet called Detarid.
The locals had taken an immediate shine to Colonel O'Neill, and had requested that he go on a hunting trip with them. Jack had been more than happy to oblige, and had left his team with a jaunty wave and a smile. None of them could have imagined that they'd never see him again.
The hunting party had never returned, and despite extensive searches by the SGC, absolutely no trace of them had ever been found. It was as if they had disappeared into thin air. Even more disturbingly, the grieving Detaridians had refused to discuss the incident with any of the 'foreigners'. Daniel had always had a feeling they knew more than they were letting on, but every attempt to talk to them had failed completely.
Daniel jumped as the sound of the Azarshan city clock chiming jolted him back to the present. The Azarshans were among the more pleasant alien cultures ever visited by SG-1 -- friendly, gentle, and quite technologically advanced. So far the Azarshans had balked a bit at sharing technology with SG-1, but Sam seemed confident she could convince the Azarshan Assistant Leader, who got stars in his eyes every time he saw her, to put in a good word for the Tau'ri visitors.
Glancing over at the table in the corner, Daniel noticed that the unclaimed book he had picked up earlier was sitting open. Crossing over to the table, he picked the book up, casting a cursory glance at its first page.
The first thing that caught his notice was the date. September 12, 2003. The Azarshans had no month called September, and their current year-numbering system had only reached 1838.
The second thing that caught his attention was the eerily familiar handwriting, its loops and curves giving him a strange feeling of dj vu. His heart in his throat, Daniel flipped the page, scanning it until he came to the signature at the bottom.
The book dropped from suddenly nerveless fingers.
The entry was signed, 'Colonel Jack O'Neill.'
"Sam!"
Lt. Colonel Samantha Carter raised her head at the call, a little bit annoyed at her teammate for interrupting her study of Azarshan technology. Daniel Jackson shot through the doorway and skidded to a stop, narrowly avoiding a collision with the valuable Azarshan device.
"Sam," he gasped, "you've got to see this."
Looking at the nondescript book being held out toward her, Sam initially thought that Daniel must have made some groundbreaking discovery about Azarshan history. That idea went out the window as soon as she raised her eyes to her teammate's face. Daniel looked like he'd seen a ghost.
Aware that Teal'c had moved up behind her and was also gazing curiously at the book, Sam took it and looked at the spot Daniel had pointed to. Her mouth fell open when she saw the name, scrawled in familiar handwriting.
"What -- ? How -- ?"
"I don't know. But somehow, Jack was here!" Daniel took the book back and turned the page back to the front. "Look. September 12, 2003. That's a little more than two months after he disappeared on Detarid."
Sam asked the obvious question. "What does it say?"
"I haven't read it yet. I came straight here when I saw the name."
Karden, the Azarshan Assistant Leader, who had stepped out onto the view deck before Daniel came in, heard the raised voices and turned. Sam gave him a smile and a small wave. Satisfied that all was well, he turned away with a dreamy smile.
"Read it," Sam urged in a low, impatient voice.
His hands shaking slightly, Daniel raised the book closer to his face and began reading.
September 12, 2003.
I got this book, and this pen, because I worked my ass off this past week. The Supervisor told me I'd earned a reward, and he looked at me like I was crazy when I asked for a book. Most of the slaves ask for a woman. That's probably what he expected me to do.
I'm not sure why I asked for a notebook, to tell you the truth. Maybe because I wasn't sure what else to ask for; maybe because I just wanted to write down my name before I forget it.
I would have requested that he turn me loose, and give me a weapon so I could blast his worthless ass before I left, but I found out a long time ago that any sign of defiance is enough to get me beaten within an inch of my life. I so hate broken ribs.
Keep waiting for my team to show up, but I know they'll have a hard time finding me. Hell, I don't even know what happened. One minute I was riding along with that scruffy little hunting party, and the next I was on a non-Gould ship being informed that I was now a slave who existed only to serve the fair land of Azarsha. Slave my ass. When the kids show up and bust me out I'll show these sons of bitches what a lowly slave can do.
I think it bothers them that I haven't turned into a meek, mindless drone yet. They play all kinds of twisted mind games to brainwash us into subservience, and it probably works with most of the Detaridians. Haven't seen any of them putting up much of a fight.
I'm a different case altogether, and I'm getting on their nerves. The Supervisor's nerves, especially. To hell with him. I've been through worse than this, and I'll survive it. Not that I'd mind if the cavalry showed up right this minute, but I'll hang on for as long as I need to.
I said earlier that I'd write down my name to make sure I didn't forget it. So, without further ado:
Colonel Jack O'Neill
As Daniel's shocked voice died away, a muscle jumped in Teal'c's jaw. He stood up and headed toward the clueless Assistant Leader, his hands clenched at his sides.
"Teal'c." Daniel grabbed the Jaffa's arm, his mental wheels beginning to turn as he overcame the initial shock. "Wait. We have to play this right. We're a little bit outnumbered, and I doubt they'll just say 'sorry' and hand him over." He took a slow, deep breath. "I need to talk to Kayda. Maybe she can tell me more about this."
All three members of SG-1 were shocked by the vivid portrayal of the Azarshans as cruel, heartless slaveholders. It was completely at odds with the gentle people they had interacted with all this time.
They would have had a hard time believing the damning words, if not for the fact that they had been penned by the one man SG-1 trusted most: Jack O'Neill.
September 15, 2003
Found a good hiding place for this book, although I'm not completely sure I need it. I don't think it ever occurred to the Supervisor that I might actually know how to write. The Detaridians have no written language; I was with the Detaridians and I look like a Detaridian; therefore I don't have a written language either. Who knows what the Supervisor thought about my request for a notebook -- probably that I wanted to draw in it or something.
One thing I discovered early on is that the Azarshans don't see us as even remotely human. I doubt they believe us capable of written language. 'Us' refers to all the slaves in this hellhole. Not all of them are Detaridian. I don't think some of them are even human. Detarid evidently isn't the only planet Azarsha raids for slaves.
It's getting harder to keep track of the days. Sometimes they make us work for several days straight with only brief breaks and very little food. It's hard to keep track of time. I'm guessing that today's the 15th, but I could be wrong.
A brief job description for my resume: this is an assembly plant of some sort, although I haven't yet figured out just what it is we're assembling. Carter could probably tell me -- hell, she could probably put all the pieces together and have a working doohickey within fifteen minutes -- but Carter's not here, fortunately. I wouldn't wish this place on her or any of my folks back at the SGC.
On the second day I was here, I deliberately screwed up one of their big honkin' devices, just to see if I could get away with it. I didn't. Won't try that again.
Our job is to put together two pieces of some type of heavy machinery. The big U-shaped piece fits into the slots on the top of the big flat piece. That's the easy part. The hard part is using a sledgehammer to wedge the U-shaped piece firmly in place so it won't come loose. Sometimes the U-shaped piece tries to jump out of place when you hit it the first time, and that makes you fall behind. When you fall behind, bad things happen. I hate that damn U-shaped piece. When I get out of here, I'll blow up as many of them as I can find.
Colonel Jack O'Neill, USAF
Kayda looked up with a winning smile as Daniel walked into the current recordhouse. "Daniel!" She greeted. "Did you find anything that caught your interest?"
Oh, you have no idea, Daniel thought, but aloud he said, "Oh, yes. Your records were fascinating. Incredibly thorough."
Kayda's smile grew wider. "I am glad to hear that."
"I glanced through some of the lost books as well, and found one in particular that caught my interest." He leaned against the counter, trying to feign nonchalance. "The journal of a slave."
"Oh?" Kayda's brow furrowed as she thought back over the years, trying to place the book. Then her eyes lit with comprehension. "Oh yes! I remember. Such an oddity. I would not have expected a slave to be capable of mastering the written word." She laughed. Daniel was unable to force even the faintest of smiles in return.
"How did it come to be in the recordhouse?" He inquired, his voice strained. Fortunately, Kayda didn't seem to notice.
"When the book was discovered, it was suspected that he had stolen it. No one even considered that it might be a journal. It was forwarded to the recordhouse, classified as a lost book."
"Was the slave punished for having the book?" Daniel asked as indifferently as possible, his heart in his throat.
"Oh, no. It was a bit late for that," Kayda replied casually. "The book was found when the cleaners were packing up the slave's belongings for disposal."
Daniel felt as if he had been punched in the stomach. His knees weakened, and he sagged against the counter.
No, he wanted to scream. No.
"How long ago was this?" He managed to ask despite the lump in his throat.
"Oh ... " Kayda propped her chin on her hand. "As Apprentice Recordkeeper I handled all matters relating to slaves, so I am the person to ask. I am thinking it was about a year before the old recordhouse closed, so ... nine years ago." She gave Daniel a strange look. "Why?"
"I was just curious ... about a slave who knew how to write. It seemed so strange ... " A tight fist had closed over his windpipe and he struggled to breathe.
They had finally found Jack O'Neill -- nine years too late.
While Daniel talked to Kayda, Sam read through the journal, desperately hoping to find any clues as to where O'Neill had been when it was written.
Most of the entries were similar to the first, containing brief and obviously understated observations about O'Neill's surroundings, plans for the things he'd do when he was freed, and short but gut-wrenching descriptions of punishments incurred for various transgressions.
Soon after the second entry, Jack had stopped trying to guess what day it was and had stuck to naming the month and year. Not long after that he had stopped trying to guess the month, and inevitably, the year had followed. After that, only a small blank space separated one entry from the next.
The entire journal made Sam's stomach twist as she read between the lines, envisioning the sheer hell that lay behind the brief summaries. Some entries were achingly candid and brought unwanted tears to her eyes.
"Knee gave out and I fell behind. The Supervisor had me beaten and then held underwater until I almost drowned. Don't know what he expects me to do. Never get hurt, I guess."
One entry in particular made her wince as she tried not to imagine what must have triggered it. The words were written in capital letters and underlined repeatedly.
"I WILL KILL THE SUPERVISOR. I SWEAR TO GOD I WILL KILL HIM IF IT'S THE LAST THING I EVER DO."
In all the entries following that one, the hate directed toward the Supervisor had increased exponentially.
As the journal went on, Sam noticed a trend: Jack's sentences were getting much shorter and sometimes less coherent. At first she thought that exhaustion was forcing him to write shorter entries, but the truth was much more disturbing. Gradually, over the months of mental and physical torture, Jack O'Neill had begun to lose himself.
What had at first been concise and surprisingly eloquent writing had relentlessly faded into shattered fragments of tangled, elusive thoughts.
Jack had struggled to cling to his memories, sometimes writing page after page of unevenly scrawled names -- only to admit afterward that he remembered none of the people behind the names.
An amazing inner strength must have driven him to keep writing in the journal, even after he had probably forgotten what it was. Some entries were totally incoherent, consisting of random words strung together to mean nothing. Sometimes he didn't even write in English. One entry read only, 'Need to find Charlie.'
Fitting that he should hold on to the memory of his son long after he had lost everything else.
By the time Sam came to the last entry, she could hardly read the scrawled, shaky handwriting. Blinking away the tears, she read five words, the final fragmented thoughts of the bravest man she'd ever known.
'Cold dark I hate die'
She flipped through the remaining pages, but all of them were blank. Jack's fight had ended.
Lt. Colonel Samantha Carter curled her arms around the book, drew her legs up to her chest, and sobbed.
Strong arms wrapped around Sam, and she recognized the silent presence without opening her eyes. When she felt the violent shudders wracking Daniel's body, she realized the embrace was as much for Daniel's comfort as for hers.
He tangled his hand in her hair and rested his head on her shoulder, and she felt the warm dampness as his tears soaked into her shirt. His visit to Kayda must have revealed the same shattering truth Sam had discovered in Jack's journal.
"He died ... a slave," Sam whispered, and hiccupped.
Daniel replied with a quivering sound that was more sob than laugh. "No," he said, "he didn't. But I bet he wished he had."
Sam stilled, trying to absorb this bizarre new twist. "What?"
"Kayda told me ... just before I left." Daniel's blue eyes were red-rimmed behind tear splotched glasses. "He didn't die. He was sent to the Azarshan medical lab ... to be used in experiments."
Sam closed her eyes, fighting nausea. "Oh God," she breathed. "Daniel ... ?"
"It was nine years ago, Sam." Daniel sounded numb, defeated. "He couldn't possibly have survived nine years of ... " He trailed off, unable to say it, unwilling even to think it.
"Oh God," Sam said again, dropping her head into her hands. When she spoke again, her voice was muffled. "Did Kayda realize something was wrong?"
"I don't think so. I told her I was having an allergy attack. Evidently Azarshans have them too."
Sam looked up, her face gray and strained. "We have to get inside that medical lab."
"Sam ... " Daniel said hopelessly.
"Daniel, I have to know!" She snapped, then closed her eyes and leaned her head back against the wall. "I'm sorry..."
"No. No, wait, I think you're on to something," Daniel said. "The Azarshans have been cooperative about sharing their technology, right? Why wouldn't they be the same about their medical program?"
Sam caught on, adding, "If we brought in a doctor who was interested in observing their research methods ... "
They stared at each other grimly, knowing they probably wouldn't like Jack's final fate, but driven by a relentless need to discover the truth.
"Janet," they said together.
Janet Fraiser took a deep breath, attempting to calm her frazzled nerves. When SG-1 had approached her about this assignment, she had been unable to refuse, but that didn't keep her from being severely nervous. Going undercover was not her forte. She was a medical doctor, for heaven's sake!
"Dr. Fraiser." Sorrim Lortes, the Azarshan doctor sent to greet her, approached with a warm smile and an outstretched hand. Like most Azarshans, he was very attractive -- dark-skinned with black hair and brown eyes.
"Dr. Lortes," Janet said, hoping her own smile looked genuine. She shook the outstretched hand, marveling at the deceptive facade of gentleness and decorum presented by a race capable of the atrocities recorded in Colonel O'Neill's journal.
"Please, call me Sorrim."
"All right, Sorrim. Then you can call me Janet."
Obviously charmed, Sorrim nodded. Janet turned quickly away, frightened that the lie she was living would show in her eyes. The medical facility she was about to enter -- usually referred to as the 'Med Lab' -- was large but plain, constructed of dark gray brick.
At the front entrance of the building, Sorrim placed his right hand flat against a sophisticated palm scanner. After receiving a small beep of confirmation, the Azarshan doctor punched in a series of numbers. He then stepped back and motioned Janet forward. "Please place your right hand on the scanner, Janet."
Dr. Fraiser followed his instructions. Seeing the question on her face, Sorrim explained, "I am granting you a visitor's pass, and a palm scan is needed for the database."
The inside of the facility smelled sterile and antiseptic, like hospitals all over the universe. Janet fought nausea as she remembered that this was not a place of healing; quite the opposite, in fact.
"The experimentation takes place down this hall," Sorrim explained. "The other wing is comprised of holding cells for the subjects."
Subjects. Nameless, faceless, human subjects like Jack O'Neill. Janet felt the hot sting of tears and took a deep breath, fighting her emotions. God, please help me get through this.
Sorrim was prattling on, oblivious to his guest's silent struggle. "The subjects here are slaves who are unable to work for various reasons -- injury, illness, complete mental breakdown. They are pathetically primitive beings, and their minds are very weak."
Janet bared her teeth in an attempted smile, fighting the urge to strangle Sorrim.
Several security checkpoints later, Janet and Sorrim entered a large white room bustling with ordered activity. The focal point of the room was a single metal table, upon which was strapped a 'subject'.
"Dr. Fraiser! How nice to meet you." A slender, blue-eyed, attractive middle-aged woman stepped forward with a smile. Her dark hair was threaded with silver, but her face was relatively unlined.
"I'm Dr. Teca Shano," she said. "I speak for all of us here when I say that we are honored by your presence."
Janet forced another smile. Her face was beginning to hurt. "Thank you, Dr. Shano. I'm honored to be here."
"If you would like to step into the observation room, we will proceed with the experiment," Dr. Shano said.
Janet dutifully went where she was told and sat down on a sofa, her heart racing.
What followed was the worst half-hour of Janet Fraiser's life.
Everything -- the oath she'd sworn, the very principles of compassion and justice upon which she had based her life and medical practice -- screamed at Janet to run into that room and stop the horror being inflicted upon a helpless human being.
She was able to resist that urge only because she knew she could never stop it. Not alone. Probably not even with help. The Azarshans were so arrogant, so secure in their own righteous supremacy, that they could never be convinced of the humanity of these 'primitive beings'.
Seeing the pallor of Janet's face and the sweat that had broken out on her brow, Sorrim looked concerned. "Are you all right?" He asked quietly.
"I ... I'm sorry," Janet whispered. "I'm afraid I'm feeling rather ill. Would there be a restroom nearby?"
"I'm afraid the restrooms in this wing are out of order," Sorrim said apologetically, "but I can take you to one in Wing B."
"I'd appreciate that."
Janet had been certain that anything would be better than watching the experiments, but walking past the holding cells was almost as bad. They were inhabited by wretched and shattered people, discarded scraps of humanity. Some sat perfectly still, their faces blank; others rocked slowly back and forth; a few cried out in some endless inner torment.
Most of them had forgotten who they were. Some of them had never been anyone in the first place.
They were throwaways, unfortunate enough to be born at the wrong time in the wrong culture.
Overwhelmed by the shock of what she had seen, and by her own shame at standing by and doing nothing, Janet stumbled, nearly falling headfirst into the clear glass wall of a holding cell.
Gathering her courage, she raised her eyes ... and came face to face with Jack O'Neill.
For an instant Janet was in shock, her mouth hanging open. It was impossible. She wouldn't have believed any human could survive nine days of experimentation -- let alone nine years!
Yet there he was.
After the shock wore off, Janet's first emotion was relief. Colonel O'Neill didn't look that bad. A little thin, perhaps, sporting a few new scars, but not emaciated and half-dead as she would have feared. Oddly enough, he didn't even look much older than he'd been ten years before.
The relief lasted until she looked into his eyes.
They were blank, empty, completely void of all life and personality. The Jack O'Neill she had known was gone, reduced to a shell that breathed but did not live.
If eyes were truly windows to the soul, Jack O'Neill's eyes revealed the shattering truth that his soul had been stolen from him.
"Janet? Are you all right?" Sorrim's concerned face swam into view.
Janet didn't even try to smile this time. "I just need that restroom," she mumbled.
She wanted to break through the glass and magically bring back the man she had known and admired. She wanted to turn back time and prevent his capture from happening in the first place.
She wanted to watch this entire culture, this race of monsters hiding behind smooth sophisticated faces, crumble to dust at her feet.
Instead, she allowed Sorrim to take her hand and lead her toward the restroom. As she walked away, Janet sent Jack a silent message, knowing he could never receive or understand it.
I'm not going to leave you here. You hear me, Jack O'Neill? I won't leave you behind. I'll get you out of here somehow.
I promise.
Fifteen minutes later, Janet emerged from the restroom having regained her composure somewhat. Sorrim was anxiously waiting for her.
"Thank you," she said, pretending to be embarrassed. "I feel a little better now. I hope I'm not coming down with a virus."
On the way back to Wing A, Janet asked a number of questions, working up to the one she really needed answered. As casually as possible, she asked, "How long do the subjects usually last?"
"Many have been here for ten years or more."
"Really? How do they survive the experimentation for so long?"
Sorrim stopped, a strange little half-smile on his face. Turning, he led Janet back toward the holding cells. "We do not usually reveal this secret to visitors, but Earth has freely offered its friendship, and our peoples are in full agreement to openly share all knowledge and technology. I have also become very fond of your company, Janet." He was so close now that his breath tickled her neck. "I must admit I am hoping you can be persuaded to join this facility." He brushed his fingers along her face.
Her shiver at his touch was one of revulsion, but he mistook it for pleasure, and his smile widened.
The secret was behind a locked door and down a flight of stairs, in a basement Janet hadn't known existed. When she saw it, she drew in a quick breath.
It was a sarcophagus.
"Yes, it's quite impressive, isn't it?" Sorrim said proudly. "It allows us to -- Janet?" He suddenly realized she was swaying on her feet.
Janet Fraiser saw her hopes of saving Jack's soul drift away like smoke on the wind.
The last thing she heard before she fell was Sorrim's voice calling her name.
Flanked by Sam and Daniel, Janet lowered herself into a chair and looked across the briefing room table toward General Hammond. He was already aware of the important facts from Janet's mission -- now there were details to discuss and a rescue to plan.
George Hammond couldn't help but notice that his CMO looked awful. Knowing that the petite doctor was much tougher than her appearance would suggest, Hammond didn't even want to imagine what she'd been through.
"Doctor, you're sure the Azarshan was unaware of the reason for your collapse?" He asked.
"Reasonably sure, sir. I told Dr. Lortes that I had come down with a 24-hour virus and needed to return to Earth for treatment."
"They must think we're an awfully sickly race, given my 'allergy attack' in front of Kayda," Daniel put in.
The conversation soon turned to the most important topic: the rescue.
"Sorrim has never actually met Sam and Daniel," Janet said. "If I introduce them to him as Dr. Carter and Dr. Jackson, I should be able to get them inside."
"The question," Sam added, "is whether we'll be able to get inside with zats."
Janet picked up what line of thought. "The only security system I saw was the palm scanner, but it's possible that I just wasn't aware of their weapons detecting systems. We never actually saw any zat'nikatels or staff weapons, but the sarcophagus seems to indicate that the Azarshans are at least somewhat familiar with Goa'uld technology -- "
"Unless they stole the sarcophagus from another world, which is very possible," Daniel said.
General Hammond was silent for a moment. "I think we'll have to take the chance," he said finally. "We can't risk sending you in there unarmed."
"I agree," Sam stated, and Daniel and Janet nodded.
The plan was simple; they could only hope it would be effective. In less than 24 hours, three people would set out on a mission to finally bring home a man who had been lost to them for more than ten years.
Painfully aware of the zat'nikatel hidden beneath her long white coat, Janet tried not to fidget nervously as Sorrim placed his hand on the palm scanner and opened the door for them.
Sam and Daniel looked a little apprehensive as well, waiting for sirens to sound as they stepped into the Med Lab. The dreaded alarms never came, and Sorrim seemed completely unaware that anything was out of place.
If there were any weapons detectors, they evidently didn't pick up Goa'uld weapons.
Just inside the Med Lab, a young woman approached Sorrim and whispered into his ear. He nodded, then turned toward his guests with a regretful smile. "I am terribly sorry, but I am needed elsewhere. We have just received a new subject, and it is being unfortunately uncooperative. Toberin will guide you until I can return." He spoke to all three of the visitors, but looked only at Janet.
Toberin, a thin girl who looked tired and overworked, offered them a listless smile. "What part of the facility would you like to see?" She asked.
"My colleagues and I were hoping to get a closer look at one of your subjects," Janet replied. Without another word, Toberin led them toward the holding cells, where she halted.
"Which one do you want to examine?"
"Oh, that one will do, I suppose," Janet said, pointing to Jack, trying to pretend it didn't really matter.
Toberin placed her hand on the palm scanner outside Jack's cell and waited impatiently until the door opened. "Now," she said, turning, "is there anything else I can do for -- "
She went down, enveloped by blue light. Daniel lowered his zat and followed Sam and Janet into the cell. They were already kneeling next to O'Neill, speaking to him gently, trying to evoke a reaction. They had no success.
Daniel took Jack's hands and gently pulled, and the prisoner immediately stood up. He was capable of walking, but only when led by the hand. He was like a robot, his free will completely obliterated.
The bizarre little group made its way down the halls, zatting all the unprepared Azarshans it encountered. They were almost to the door when Sorrim appeared, his face registering surprise.
"Janet?" He looked at Jack, then at her, correctly surmising that she was stealing a 'subject'. "What are you doing?"
"I'm taking my friend home," she said calmly.
"Friend? He's a slave!" Sorrim spat.
"No." Janet stared unflinchingly into his eyes. "He is the bravest man I ever met."
Sorrim's face twisted, and anger radiated from his dark eyes. "You're a traitor," he hissed.
"And you," Janet replied, "are a monster." She shot him with the zat and stood for a moment, indecisive, her hand shaking. In the end, she couldn't kill him. She was a doctor. She had been trained to heal, not to kill.
Sam was not a doctor. Sam had been trained to kill. Sam shot Sorrim again. "That's for Colonel O'Neill," she stated quietly.
"Come on," Daniel said urgently. "We have to get out of here."
Once outside, Sam, Janet and Daniel broke into a run, something Jack was unable to match. Sam took one arm and Daniel took the other, and they practically dragged O'Neill toward the 'gate.
Teal'c, waiting next to the Stargate, dialed home the moment he saw them coming. They heard a faint siren from the city behind them, but it was too little, too late.
SG-1 stepped through the wormhole together, supporting their catatonic friend, who was finally going home.
Rubbing a hand wearily over her face, Janet Fraiser dropped a thick medical file on the table in front of her. "Physically, Colonel O'Neill is in almost perfect health," she said. "He appears only slightly older than he was ten years ago, which can be explained by the sarcophagus. It must have prevented him from aging normally."
She paused, and General Hammond prompted, "Doctor ... ?"
Janet sighed as she came to the part she really didn't want to think about. "He has been completely unresponsive, sir. He isn't brain-dead, but ... " She shrugged helplessly. "Given his long-term exposure to the sarcophagus, I'm afraid it's very possible that ... there's nothing we can do to help him." Her voice cracked slightly.
"I will not accept that," Daniel said, his voice low and fierce. All heads turned toward the normally mild archaeologist in surprise. He looked both exhausted and angry. "I did not bring Jack back here to put him in a nursing home," he snapped.
"Daniel, the sarcophagus ... you know better than anyone what it does ... "
"I know it has a devastating effect on a human, yes, but think about it, Janet. Remember Apophis' host? How many times do you think he had been in the sarcophagus? Yet he was still aware, still able to talk to me. And Shyla's father? The sarcophagus may have changed him, but he wasn't ... "
"Like Jack?" Sam said softly. "Daniel, you have to remember that the sarcophagus isn't all Jack has been through. By the time he was taken to the Med Lab, he could hardly even form a coherent sentence. Who knows how many experiments he's been through. The sarcophagus just ... makes the situation that much worse."
"I'm not giving up on him!" Daniel shouted, his face beginning to redden.
"Son, nobody's giving up on Colonel O'Neill," General Hammond put in, his voice soothing. "We're just trying to be realistic. It will be a long, hard road to bring him back, but you should know we won't give up on him."
"I know." Daniel looked ashamed. "I'm sorry."
"It's all right, Dr. Jackson. We've all been through a great deal of stress over these last few days." General Hammond stood, pushing back his chair. "I can tell that you're all eager to see Colonel O'Neill, so you're dismissed."
The briefing room was empty within seconds.
"Hi Jack," Daniel said softly.
O'Neill was lying on his back in the infirmary, staring straight up at the ceiling. Other than the occasional blink, he was completely still, not seeming to hear the voices of those who had once been his best friends.
Daniel sat down next to Jack's bed and took his friend's hand in his own. It was cold and limp, the fingers slightly curled. It seemed wrong for the eternally fidgety Jack O'Neill to be so still.
"We've missed you around here, you know. The nurses just about mutinied after you disappeared. They said they couldn't stand not having you around to bother them. Bet they were the last people you'd expect to miss you, huh?"
He kept up the inane chatter for more than an hour, knowing that the sound of his voice mattered more than the words being said. He spoke gently and soothingly, reaching out, hoping and praying to draw Jack back toward the surface.
By the time Daniel was hoarse and exhausted, Sam was ready to take his place. After her came Teal'c, then Janet, then finally General Hammond himself.
Over the following days, a routine was established; O'Neill was rarely alone, and he almost always had someone talking to him. Usually it was Sam, Daniel, Teal'c or Janet, but others took turns as well -- nurses, other SG team members, even the occasional technician like Walter Harriman or Graham Simmons.
They read to him until their throats were raw and their voices faded into whispers. They related funny and sometimes scandalous stories they'd heard. Harriman gave a detailed explanation of the latest Windows operating systems. Simmons brought in a new, high-tech GameBoy and described the new games that had come out in the past ten years. Teal'c even tried singing, which emptied the infirmary within minutes.
And Jack lay silently, unmoving, and stared at the ceiling.
"I saw Dr. McKenzie out in the hall. He doesn't look happy," Daniel commented, joining Sam beside Jack's bed.
She snorted and closed the book she'd been reading to Jack. "He shouldn't be. He isn't making any more progress than we are. I think he's finally ready to let us take Jack home."
"It's about time." Daniel sat down and took Jack's hand. "Hi, Jack. How are you feeling?"
Blink. Blink. Jack's eyes stayed focused on the ceiling.
"You think taking him home will do any good?" Daniel asked Sam.
She shrugged wearily. "Who knows? Maybe the familiar surroundings will help. God knows we've tried everything else, and I do mean everything."
Looking depressed, Daniel nodded. "Everyone urged us to sell his house, but I'm glad now that we didn't."
"Yeah." Sam leaned forward and gently brushed a strand of hair away from O'Neill's forehead. "He needs a haircut," she commented suddenly.
"I know. I'll give him one after we get him out of here."
"You?" Sam sounded surprised.
Daniel laughed. "Yes, me. What, you didn't think I could give a decent haircut?"
"Not really -- oh, my God." She lowered her voice. "Daniel, look at him."
It took Daniel a few seconds to see what Sam was talking about. Then he realized that Jack's eyes had moved.
When he heard the laugh, Jack had turned his head slightly and looked straight at Daniel. For an instant, some elusive emotion flickered in the dark brown eyes. Then it was gone, and the blankness returned.
The important thing was that it had been there.
At last, they had proof that Jack O'Neill still existed behind the blank face and glassy stare.
"Home sweet home." Daniel, lugging a suitcase in one hand and leading Jack with the other, stepped through the door of Jack's rather dusty house. "You remember this place?"
Jack blinked.
"Don't worry, you will. We watched many a cheesy movie in this room. You can't have forgotten 'The Giant Fish From Outer Space, Part III'."
Jack blinked.
"Daniel's right, sir," Sam said from behind them, wrinkling her nose at the state of the long-deserted living room. "The special effects were really ... something. Although you did say the Giant Fish weren't quite as scary as the Goa'uld."
"I must beg to differ, O'Neill," Teal'c said sternly. "The Giant Fish have much larger teeth than the Goa'uld. Their fins also appear to be sharper."
"Don't forget that they shoot laser beams out their eyes," Daniel added.
Sam, having forgotten that particular detail, suddenly got the giggles. "That was probably the worst movie I've ever seen," she said through her laughter.
Jack smiled.
He looked straight at her and smiled a funny little tentative half-smile.
Sam stopped laughing and started crying.
The smile was the beginning.
Jack came back to them gradually, by bits and pieces, taking small baby steps. At first, he concentrated mostly on the sound of their voices, on the gentle touches, on the mere presence of other humans who didn't exist only to hurt him.
He started feeding himself. He walked to the bathroom alone. He washed his own hair and got shampoo in his eyes. He put on a shirt and buttoned it up wrong.
Sam, Daniel and Teal'c stayed with him in shifts, ensuring that he was never alone. Tentatively, he learned to trust them. Slowly, he crept from behind the walls he had built to protect himself from the pain.
Like a small child, he understood words long before he could speak them, which was a good thing, because his well-meaning friends bombarded him with words. They continued to read to him -- including "War and Peace", in its entirety -- and the once-vacant house endured a constant stream of visitors.
Nurses from the SGC infirmary. Computer technicians. Neighbors who had mourned him as dead. SG team members who had known him before. SG team members who had never met him. The quiet support offered was incredible.
Ironically, the least-welcome guest was Dr. McKenzie himself. It seemed that Jack remembered enough to know that he disliked the man.
Cassie, twenty-eight now and married with her first child due in two months, visited as often as possible. She would maneuver her bulky body into a chair and proceed to describe, in great detail, every ache, pain and difficulty associated with pregnancy. The expression on Jack's face always said that he understood far more than he wanted to.
When he finally did speak, it was almost accidental -- he stubbed his toe on the way to the bathroom, and reflexively shouted "Ow!". His initial surprise was immediately replaced by the thrill of discovery -- I can talk after all! -- and he became rapidly more articulate in the following days.
Fittingly, Jack's signature sarcasm was present almost from the first, particularly with McKenzie. After one ill-fated visit, the good doctor was heard muttering on his way out, "The man has not changed one bit!"
Most of Jack's skills, like his personality, had not been erased, just temporarily repressed. He immediately knew how to drive, how to load a P-90, how to adjust the telescope on his roof. As his independence returned, so did his aloofness.
His memories returned rapidly -- the bad along with the good. Some of them must have hurt tremendously, but in the true fashion of Jack O'Neill, he refused to discuss them -- with anyone. He was especially reticent with McKenzie, reinforcing the psychiatrist's opinion that "the man has not changed".
No one, including McKenzie, was able to pry out more than a few taciturn sentences about O'Neill's traumatic experiences as a slave and a human guinea pig. Jack declined to discuss the journal, and asked Carter to give it to him. She never saw it again.
Jack O'Neill's friends rejoiced in his gradual return, every part of it -- including his sometimes biting sarcasm and his inflexible reserve. He was far from perfect, but he was their friend, and they had fought for him.
"Colonel O'Neill?"
Janet Fraiser knocked on the front door, then paused and waited for an answer. This was one of the first times that Jack had been left alone for an entire night, and although she would never have admitted it, she was worried about him.
"Come in," Jack's voice called faintly. Janet gave a sigh of relief and walked inside, stepping over an old pizza box that hadn't quite made it to the trash can. Jack O'Neill's housekeeping habits had not changed.
"Hi, Doc." Jack was sitting on the couch, a book propped open in his lap. He gave her a mischievous and slightly tired smile. "Come to check on the patient?"
She opened and closed her mouth several times, then sighed, knowing it was useless to deny the purpose for her visit. "Yes, Colonel, I guess so."
"I haven't been on active duty for more than ten years, Doc. Drop the 'Colonel', would ya?"
She laughed, a little embarrassed. "I'm sorry. It's just -- old habits die hard."
"Yeah, I know. Carter still calls me sir." He shrugged with a grin. "And I still call her Carter."
Janet nodded. After a moment of awkward silence, Jack asked, "How's Cassie?"
"As well as can be expected in her condition. She called me this morning, crying. It took me a few minutes to understand that she was trying tell me that she looks like a whale."
Jack winced sympathetically. "All I can say is, I'm glad I wasn't born female."
Janet smiled. "I got lucky, sir -- I was born female, and I have a beautiful daughter and I'm about to have a grandchild, but I never had to actually give birth."
"Yeah, lucky you." He looked wistful. Janet didn't know what to say; she was all too aware that he would probably be a grandparent by now if not for ...
"Doc," Jack said suddenly, his voice soft. "I just wanted to thank you."
"Thank me?" She echoed.
"Daniel and Carter told me what you did to get me out. Thank you."
She smiled a little. "You're welcome, sir. I'd do it again. We all would."
There was a barbecue at Jack's place that night; among those invited were Sam, Daniel, Teal'c, General Hammond, Janet, Simmons, Harriman, and Cassie and her husband. Just before the food was ready, Jack discovered a frightening shortage of beer, and sent Daniel out to buy more, with specific instructions on which brand to get.
The errant archaeologist returned twenty minutes later with a different brand.
The others were waiting with growling stomachs and dwindling patience when Daniel returned. Not one of them could resist a smile when they heard a sudden yell from inside the house.
"For cryin' out loud, Daniel! I told you to get Guinness!"
Sitting outside in the gathering dusk of a beautiful Colorado evening, Jack O'Neill's friends -- his family -- knew he was back. He might never go on missions again; he might never even return to the SGC. None of them knew what the future held. But the important thing was that they had brought him home; they had brought him back to himself.
For better or for worse, Jack O'Neill had returned.
Epilogue
Samantha Carter tapped her fingers on the table, waiting impatiently for the briefing to begin. Hearing General Hammond say her name, she quickly focused her attention on him.
"Yes, sir?"
"Colonel, there's one thing that was never really made clear to me. Why was Colonel O'Neill sent to the Med Lab?"
"Well, from what Sorrim told Janet, it was probably because he had a serious injury, or because his body had simply worn down to the point where he was no longer any good to them as a worker."
"That wasn't why," said a voice from the doorway.
Sam spun in her chair, blushing slightly when she saw the newly returned to duty Colonel Jack O'Neill. For some reason, he was sporting a smug grin. Sam hadn't realized just how much she missed that smile until she saw it again.
"Colonel O'Neill, how nice of you to join us," General Hammond said calmly.
"Sorry, sir," Jack replied unapologetically, and sat down, still wearing the smile. When Sam saw that he wasn't going to elaborate without prompting, she said, "So? Why were you sent to the Med Lab?"
Jack leaned back in his chair. "I was sent there as punishment." The grin grew wider. "I'm afraid I broke a pretty big rule. I killed the Supervisor."
THE END
If you enjoyed this story, please send feedback to Katerina17
Heliopolis Main Archive
A Stargate: SG-1 Fanfiction Site
Ten Years
by Katerina17Site Navigation
Support Heliopolis