That could wait. He heard another quiet puff: more bullets being pumped into Carter's previously well-ordered home. O'Neill always liked crashing Carter's pad. It was always clean without O'Neill having to pick after himself. It offended his sense of what was right in the world for assassins to crash her home in the more literal sense. And blood stains on the deep pile carpet would be intolerable, not to mention picking up the pizza slice he'd dropped when first shot at.

            He moved from shrubbery to bush, sometimes flat on his belly, sometimes chancing a crouched over crawl. O'Neill felt the terrifyingly exuberant feeling of freedom, the sense of going up against an armed gunman and knowing that he would either succeed or die, and nothing in between. The feeling that he had nothing to lose.

            The sniper slithered down from the tree, emboldened by the lack of return fire. This one was a little more creative than the last: he stood next to the tree, using it as both cover and staying in its shadow to hide his own position. He sighted along the barrel, looking for his target inside.

            O'Neill hoped it was a cushion that the man saw. Out of the corner of his eye he glimpsed something moving inside the window, black on black without lights. He didn't have time to wait.

            He took three steps for a running start and left the ground in a flying tackle. He hit assassin number two at waist level, knocking the gun away and tumbling them both to the ground. O'Neill shoulder-rolled to a combat stance, hands open and ready.

            Assassin number two mimicked him. The gun lay several feet away, a deadly equalizer. O'Neill couldn't let the man get his hands on it. He feinted, trying to draw his opponent out.

            The man refused the bait. He went for a sweep to knock O'Neill's legs out from underneath him. O'Neill jumped, dodging the trick, and lashed out at the man's head. He connected solidly, rocking the assassin back.

            O'Neill pressed his advantage. He grabbed an arm and twisted it into a half-Nelson, grabbing the man's head to lock him in place. "Talk, damn you. Who sent you?"

            The man continued to struggle, foolishly in O'Neill's opinion, since O'Neill had him in an air-tight seal. All O'Neill had to do was squeeze a bit tighter to cut off the air, and the world would be minus one inept assassin.

            But there was something unnervingly familiar about his opponent. O'Neill tried to get a better look.

            "Moravian?" The assassin continued to struggle. "Moravian, what the hell is this? Why are you doing this?"

            Moravian spit out a torrent of what sounded suspiciously like Goa'uld at its finest. Or lowest. Whatever, it was unprintable, O'Neill was sure. His blood ran cold.

            Step one: containment. O'Neill throttled the hapless Moravian into unconsciousness, not certain if there was a better idea. He dragged the pair inside, having to dodge a wide-eyed Carter who nearly blew a hole through his head before she realized who it was.

            "Oh, no, Colonel O'Neill! I'm sorry, sir!"

            "Why don't I take that now, Carter?" O'Neill relieved her of his handgun, refusing her offer of help to get the pair trussed up on her sofa. "They cut your phone line, which is why we couldn't call out for Daniel and Teal'c to join us for more pizza."

            "More pizza?"

            "You slept through the first pie," O'Neill explained. "We'll have the second on the way back to the base. Delivery guy ought to be here any minute; it's been almost forty-five. You up for this? We'll have SG security in an uproar."

            Carter looked at O'Neill's captives. "Sir, I recognize these men. They're our people, from SGC. This is Moravian, and this is Chung. Both are men assigned to Captain Nwembe, in research."

            "Well, that explains the Goa'uld," O'Neill grunted. He gave the last knot a tug. Chung wouldn't be squirming out of that one.

            "Goa'uld, sir?"

            "Moravian here was spouting a bunch of it right before he decided to take a nap. And I don't think he was learning it at the local community college."

            "Yes, sir." For once, Carter was even slower on the uptake than O'Neill himself. "Why were Chung and Moravian speaking Goa'uld?"

O'Neill just looked at her, unable to believe what he was hearing. Then he was disappointed; it should have made him feel better than he did right now. He might never get another chance to be smarter than Carter, and right now he was too worried to enjoy it.

            "I'll haul 'em out to the car and stuff 'em in the back seat. You crawl in the front seat and take another nap. I want you fresh for when we arrive at SGC, 'cause I'm really hoping that it'll be an arrival where people are glad to see us and not an invasion of Goa'uld system lords with a phalanx of Jaffa lackeys that we have to contend with."

*          *          *

            "Dr. Frasier? Dr. Frasier? Are you all right in there?" Someone banged on the door to the infirmary, which had automatically slammed shut when the power went out. "It's Pedersen. All you all right?"

            "Pedersen!" Jackson and one of the guards watching Figueroa went to the door to help pry it open. Frasier stayed with her patients, machines still beeping with endless regularity. "How did you get past the bulkheads? Is everyone all right? What's going on out there?"

            "Chaos," Pedersen returned through the three inches, grunting as he tried to spread the bulkhead further to allow entrance. "Power's out—as if you didn't know—we're cut off from the outside world, and nobody's in command. Man, what a time for Hammond to be down and out. Is he even alive? It's gonna take us days to get this mess straightened out. Anybody find Colonel O'Neill?"

            "Not by phone," Jackson returned. "His cell's dead, and something's blocking the line to Carter's place. Hammond's alive, but Frasier's plenty worried." He shoved harder at the door. "No Goa'uld out there, making an invasion? Anyone coming through the Stargate?"

            Pedersen stared at him, then burst into laughter. "Not a chance, Dr. J! You thinking another foothold situation? Not gonna happen, not with all the security we got on the Stargate. We already got a team at the Gate, armed with miniature cannons and flashlights. Nothing's getting through that Gate, not until we get this power thing settled." He finally was able to squeeze inside, the massive bulkheads making it a tight fit for his ample shoulders. "Geez, Marino, will you point that thing somewhere else? I just rescued your asses from Doc Frasier here. I'll bet she was ready to shoot you guys up with vitamins, or something. How's the general?"

            Everyone automatically looked at the still sleeping figure lying on a narrow hospital bed, hooked up to many beeping boxes.

            Pedersen chose that moment to bring up his own rifle. Two quick shots, and both of Figueroa's guards went down. A third shot, and Dr. Frasier screamed.

            Jackson grabbed at the gun, but Pedersen was stronger than the archeologist. They wrestled for possession, Pedersen throwing Jackson back and forth like a terrier with a rat, trying to regain control over the weapon. Pedersen slammed Jackson into the wall. Jackson grunted, but refused to let go. He head-butted Pedersen as he'd seen both O'Neill and Teal'c do—damn, that hurt!—and staggered the man.

            Pedersen quickly regained his footing, and swung Jackson against one of the beds—it was Teal'c's—leaning him back and off balance. Jackson could feel the solid muscle mass of Teal'c's body underneath him, and wished heartily for some of the muscle mass to be in action right now. It would be most welcome. Slowly, inexorably, the business end of Pedersen's handgun swung toward Jackson's temples, and all Jackson could think was not the glasses! They're my last pair!

            Next thing he knew, a long and strong dark arm flew past his ear to land squarely between Pedersen's eyes. Pedersen dropped instantly. The gun clattered to the floor.

            "Teal'c!" Jackson exclaimed. 

            Teal'c sat up, and surveyed the carnage with serenity, steadying his bad shoulder with the good arm that had just saved Jackson's last pair of spectacles. Hammond was snoring gently in the next bed, the monitors still quietly chattering to themselves. Figueroa also slept, muttering Goa'uld and Spanish curses, and his two guards were down and moaning, each clutching a bullet wound that, while not immediately lethal, would keep them from action. Frasier too was trying to staunch the flow of blood from a hole in her shoulder, pretending it didn't hurt as much as it did. "It appears, DanielJackson, that we have a situation."

*          *          *

            Nwembe looked at his watch. Four hours. Moravian and Chung should have reported back by now, letting him know of their success in eliminating both O'Neill and Carter. Neither one had called in, therefore it was reasonable to assume that they had failed in their mission. Likewise, Pederson was unreachable, as was Figueroa. Of the remaining three, Murphy was attempting to shoot through the infirmary door at any of the eight occupants, since two of the octet were primary targets and another two were secondary. Lee was positioned at the entrance to Cheyenne Mountain, deflecting any outside interference. Schmidt was guarding the armory; any counter-attack would begin there.

            Jackson worried Nwembe. The archeologist had not been seen since Murphy arrived at the infirmary after Pedersen's abortive attempt to assassinate the SG-1 team members, and Murphy was unable to verify Jackson's presence inside with the Jaffa and General Hammond. It was possible that the archeologist had escaped during the interval between when Pedersen had failed and Murphy arrived to replace him. Therefore the guard on the armory was necessary, in order to prevent Jackson from arming both himself and the Jaffa. The Jaffa had been injured in Figueroa's original unanticipated attack, but was still a threat to be reckoned with. Nwembe did not intend to underestimate Teal'c.

Nor did he intend to underestimate the archeologist. Jackson had proven himself a wily player in the game of system lord survival. Nwembe hustled down to Jackson's office to check on the artifacts. It was certainly there that Dr. Jackson would try to access the outside world and contact the authorities for immediate assistance. Consider the personality of the man, and that would drive any plans. Dr. Jackson would first attempt to get to the armory for weapons and then, finding it unassailable with Schmidt guarding the entrance, would head to the most familiar spot in the Command base in order to call for help.

Nwembe took a moment to review his strategy, the little voice inside his mind that was the real Nwembe screaming silently in horror. Goa'uld-Nwembe examined the mission as a whole: Stargate Command was unconquerable by conventional means, so if he and his team could excise the individuals who had made it so, the rest of the base would fall in short order. Once the base was theirs, the Stargate could be opened to allow the Jaffa to invade in force. A fool-proof plan, as long as the first step could be successfully accomplished.

To eliminate the essential personnel, determine the probably behavior of each, and attack when they weren't expecting it. Look at both Teal'c, and General Hammond. Those attacks had been unanticipated and successful, though not lethal. Those errors would be rectified.

            Somewhere inside him Nwembe knew what he was doing was wrong, that it went against everything that the captain stood for. But that little voice seemed powerless against the force that was driving him.

            Nwembe checked the artifacts one last time before leaving Jackson's office. The artifacts had each grown a crystal since possessing a Tau're. There was no need for subtlety any longer, and the overt crystal could control these bodies with greater efficiency. Even the little Nwembe inside who no longer controlled his own actions appreciated efficiency. Goa'uld-Nwembe wished that more of the snare-crystals had been transferred through the Stargate to the Tau're base, but one had to make do with what one had. Eight had been brought through, and eight would have to be enough to dispatch the SG-1 team as well as Hammond and Frasier.

            It was important to find Dr. Jackson. He was a target, and now he was the only one capable of leaving the base to alert the authorities. If more personnel were activated, the probability of success in eliminating the target Tau're would be significantly reduced and plans for a Goa'uld invasion scrapped.

            Review of Dr. Jackson's personality profile suggested that the archeologist, finding the phone system all over SGC to be inoperative, would then attempt to escape Cheyenne Mountain and search out both Colonel O'Neill and Major Carter. Since a motor vehicle would be essential to get anywhere away from the mountain in any reasonable amount of time, Nwembe assumed that Jackson would eventually go to the parking lot to fetch either his or another car.

            The plan was set. Nwembe headed for the entrance, and the parking lot, of Cheyenne Mountain.

*          *          *

            "Get to a working phone," Jackson chanted silently to himself. "Get to a working phone."

            For it was clear that Stargate Command was under attack; the foothold scenario had become a reality. The majority of the base personnel were trapped behind thick bulkheads. To rely upon their help would be courting disaster. Several people had been taken over somehow by Goa'uld forces. Frasier, arm in a sling, had determined that while Pedersen and Figueroa were under Goa'uld influence and spouting what both Teal'c and Jackson assured her were Goa'uld curses, neither one hosted a parasite. Figuring out what horror was driving them would require more equipment than she had at her disposal, so Jackson had helped tie Pedersen down with the same type of restraints that kept Figueroa under control. It seemed the only way to keep everyone safe.

            "You must contact Colonel O'Neill and Major Carter," Teal'c had told Jackson in no uncertain terms. "Neither I nor Privates Marino and Green are capable of making this journey." The Jaffa had hefted the gun that he had liberated from Pedersen. "I will defend the infirmary until you return. If the armory is accessible, fetch weapons. My staff weapon would be most welcome. If that is not feasible, then contact O'Neill by any means possible, by telephone or in person. You must not fail. You must not chance being apprehended." Then he favored Jackson with a very concerned look. "Do not get caught, DanielJackson. They will not let you live."

            Great. No second chances. Point in the good guys' favor, Jackson decided, was that there didn't seem to be many people taken over by the Goa'uld. The hallways were all but bare. Stargate personnel were still trapped behind the bulkheads on the lower levels, but Jackson was mindful of Teal'c's instructions not to try to contact them. The bulkheads would take too long to breach to hope for a rescue by the rest of the base. Jackson had tried to swing by the armory, but he spotted someone on guard there, watching, automatic weaponry at ready.

Was the guard part of the good guys, or Goa'uld-possessed? Jackson couldn't tell for certain, but the man seemed too calm to be on Jackson's side. Any member of SGC would be nervous and trigger-happy, and loudly phoning for help. Jackson prudently decided against a frontal assault on the armory. Time to put Teal'c's next set of instructions into action: get hold of Jack O'Neill.

            Next stop: his own office. It wasn't considered a high risk area, and Jackson hoped that his phone was still in working condition even if the power was not. If the landline phone was dead, his cell phone was in his jacket pocket, the jacket hanging from the coat tree in the corner, next to shepherd's crook from PSG-3764. Piece of cake.

            He headed for his office, walking as quietly as he could, pausing at the corners to be certain that he wouldn't be walking into an ambush in the next hallway. All the time, his mind was worrying at the problem: how had the Goa'uld managed to infiltrate? The most obvious, through the StarGate, hadn't happened. Not unless the Goa'uld had mastered not only invisibility but using the Gate without the giant blue flush, as O'Neill so delicately put it.

            All right, what objects had recently come through the Gate? It had to have been those artifacts with the not-Goa'uld writing on them. But that too didn't make sense: the SG-1 team had handled them the most, and they all were unaffected. Figueroa was the first, and it had happened right after Figueroa looked at the boulder closely. Why Figueroa and not Jackson himself?

            It was one of those inspired moments. Eureka. Aha. Voile. The electrifying knowledge jolted through him with the certainty of a prophet. And then settled into the pit of his stomach like a bleeding ulcer.

            The artifacts had been a trap.

            The writing was, in fact, Goa'uld. At least, the letters were. The reason that the words made no sense was because they weren't words. They were merely a jumbled collection of letters designed to intrigue one very gullible and trusting archeologist. An archeologist/trouble magnet who had toted eight large boulders home with a deadly Goa'uld device inside.

            The plan made sense, in a Goa'uld-ian sort of way. There was no possible chance for the Goa'uld to attack the base directly, so they resorted to subterfuge. Not a particularly Goa'uld-ish type of plot, but there was always a system lord or two willing to go out on a limb. If it succeeded, then the system lord could take credit for his or her cleverness. If it failed, then the system lord could disavow any knowledge, etc., and blame a hapless underling.

            No, Jackson realized, it wasn't the base itself that was under attack. Not yet; that was step two. Even now the Stargate control room was heavily guarded, impervious to an assault from beyond the Gate. The bulkheads that trapped the rest of base also enclosed the Stargate room as well, now swarming with highly annoyed, not to mention motivated, Stargate military personnel. Eight people would never be able to take over the Stargate to let Goa'uld troops through. No, this was something even more insidious.

            The artifacts had assembled a team of eight to eliminate those that the Goa'uld hated the most: the SG-1 team.

            Now that made Goa'uld-ish sense. If the system lords could kill those most responsible for repelling the invading forces, they could diminish the base's effectiveness dramatically. Goa'uld culture valued individuality in its people (though not its Jaffa followers) and the success or failure of a mission was usually the result of an individual's ability to perform. Any Goa'uld would believe that the success of Earth's Stargate program was the result of a few, rather than the teamwork that Earth people valued.

            Teal'c had been the first. Figueroa had been taken over by the artifact when he had entered Jackson's office, and had attacked the Jaffa. It was only sheer luck, and Jaffa training, that had allowed Teal'c to dodge the lethal blow.

            But how had Pedersen been affected? Of course: Pedersen was Security, and one of the first on the scene when Jackson had called for help. Okay, that left six more people roaming the base and inflicting damage, assuming that each artifact contained a Goa'uld mind control device. Who were they? Probably the man outside the armory for one. Jackson didn't know his name. Who else? Who would have been through Jackson's office at the right time?

            It became even more important for Jackson to return to his office, before the rest of the eight affected realized what he knew. Maybe he could find a way to neutralize whatever device the Goa'uld had stuck in the artifacts.

            No, wait. It couldn't be the artifacts. Nwembe and his crew had checked them out. And Carter had done the same before ever leaving PSX-1280.

            Yes it could, Jackson realized. The artifacts had been dormant until they were brought through the Gate. Then they activated themselves just in time to affect Figueroa. Jackson himself wouldn't have been affected; he was one of the targets. And Nwembe's crew were the next hapless victims on the scene. If Nwembe and his team had been affected, they would have been able to roam the base without challenge for hours, setting up the power outage and attacking General Hammond. Taking out the general would be the perfect cover for setting up the rest of the base as a giant booby trap for SG-1. It was only sheer luck that O'Neill was off the base with Carter when the Goa'uld artifact-device went into action, screwing up the Goa'uld plan from the start.

            All right, the teams were defined: SG-1 on the good guys' side, and Nwembe and his team possessed by evil Goa'uld devices turning them into the bad guys. And right now the bad guys were winning; they had control of the base.

If Jackson could get hold of O'Neill, the colonel would be able to come up with a plan to retake SGC. Then Carter could figure out a way to restore Nwembe et al back to normal, and the crisis would be averted. That was how it always worked, wasn't it? And for once, Jackson wasn't on the whumping list: Teal'c was down, Hammond was down, even Frasier was trying to patch herself up. But Jackson himself was unharmed. All he had to do was get hold of O'Neill and keep clear until the crisis was over.

            He made it to his office without anyone seeing him. There was a close call; Nwembe himself strode briskly away from Jackson's office just before Jackson darted back out of sight. But Jackson finally found himself inside his own office, shuddering like a leaf but safe. For the moment.

            First things first. He tried his phone: dead. Not surprising; Jackson's office was not on the emergency generator list, and the instrument was deep inside a mountain connected by who knew how many wires to get to an outside line. If Jackson had been directing this assault one of his first actions would have been to completely cut off the base from the outside world and help.

            Not a problem. Jackson went next for his cell phone, clipped onto the pocket of his jacket. He pulled it out, and thumbed the buttons.

            Nothing. The battery had given out. Jackson said a bad word in Goa'uld, that language being particularly suited to cursing.

            Get to O'Neill, Teal'c had said. Okay, Jackson relied on the Jaffa for strategy. As an archeologist, Jackson was better suited to examining cultural mores than plotting to retake a command base. So Jackson was determined to do as Teal'c said.

            The front door was not an option. Goa'uld-possessed Nwembe would have certainly blocked that route. But Teal'c had told him of an airshaft that opened up not too far from the entrance to Cheyenne Mountain. From there he could get to his car—yes, the keys were in his jacket pocket—and drive to Carter's place to fetch the two military types.

            He glanced at the offending artifacts, and stared. Each one had grown a long and vicious looking crystal. They looked like the crystals that the Goa'uld used to power their ships and other devices. If ever Jackson needed proof that the Goa'uld were involved, here it was. Clearly these were the objects that were taking over members of the SGC. Why hadn't Carter's toys discovered them before SG-1 had hauled the artifacts back through the Gate? Jackson didn't know, and the answer to that problem was secondary at the moment. Carter could figure that one out later. Assuming there was a 'later'.

            He didn't have much time. Nwembe could return at any moment. He gathered up the crystals, thrusting them into a bag and shoving them into his pocket, and hustled out towards fresh air.

*          *          *

            "Carter, you awake? Carter?"

            "Umm? Wha-?" Carter jerked herself upright. "I'm awake, sir." She glanced back at the two Stargate personnel still sleeping soundly in the back seat. Both sets of hands were bound uncomfortably behind them, but it didn't seem to make a difference. "They're still out, sir. Have you been able to contact the base?"

            "No, Carter, that's what I want you to do," O'Neill said, trying to be patient, putting the car into a left hand turn just ahead of the red light. He handed her the cell phone that was still in his pocket. "See if you can get hold of General Hammond."

            "The phone is dead. You didn't recharge the battery."

            "I know that, Carter. You're the mechanical genius around here. Fix it. Power it up from a piece of tinfoil. Do something, Carter. Get me General Hammond."

            "Yes, sir." She rummaged in his glove compartment, and pulled out a long black cord still wrapped in plastic.

            "What's that?"

            "It's a car accessory device for your cell phone. I got it for you last Christmas; don't you remember? I'm going to power your phone from the car battery."

            "Oh." O'Neill tried not to feel embarrassed.

            "Sir, do you carry a pocket knife? This plastic is kind of hard to get through with one hand." Carter held up her injured wrist, still encased in a splint.

            That he had. Carter hooked up the cell phone to the cigarette lighter, and dialed. "No answer, sir. Both General Hammond's personal line and the main phone to reception just ring, and nobody picks up."

            "Hmm." Lots of paranoid little thoughts were running through his head, and O'Neill didn't like any of them. They all ended up with, 'and the Goa'uld lived happily ever after.' "I'm thinking that maybe knocking on the front door isn't such a swift idea, Carter. You?"

            "Right with you, sir."

            O'Neill chanced a look at his second in command. She looked more in charge of herself; Frasier's drugs were wearing off. Of course, there was still the broken wrist to contend with, but O'Neill had faith in Carter. She would come through for him.

            Another thought hit. "Carter, maybe they tried to call me at home, before it hit the fan. Get the remote access to my answering machine." He gave her the code. "How many messages?"

            "Three, sir." Carter listened, and gave him the gist of the messages. "You've won a free trip to Orlando, Florida."

            "Great. Only have to pay for food, beer, and a trip to see the killer whale, what's his name."

            "Second message: a survey company wants your opinion—and your donation—to a non-profit organization dedicated to sending a man to Mars. They believe that Man's destiny is to escape to the stars—"

            "Erase it, Carter. What's the third?"

            "It's Daniel, sir," she said after a moment. "Sir, you were right. Somebody on the base attacked Teal'c. Sir, General Hammond's been hurt! They need you at SGC right away."

            "Crap." It seemed appropriate. And summarized his feelings all in a single expletive. "Any more than that? The base under attack? Somebody blow up something? Mother ship in orbit? Details would be a good thing, Carter."

            "No, sir, that's all. Daniel sounded pretty upset. No details."

            "Make sure your seatbelt's buckled, Carter." O'Neill pushed down on the pedal, and the engines responded with a roar. "We're not going to take our time with this. I've got a bad feeling," he added unnecessarily.

*          *          *

            Frasier sidled up to Teal'c, who had stationed himself alongside the infirmary door so that he could survey the corridor outside the partially opened bulkhead. He held Pedersen's gun in his good hand, ready to fire should there be the need. There had been no movement in the last half hour, although Teal'c could still hear Murphy breathing down the hallway. Murphy couldn't get in, but neither could Teal'c and any of the others get out. Figueroa had awakened, and Frasier had sedated him again, and, for good measure, added a bit more to Pedersen to keep him under easy control as well. None of the Stargate personnel in the infirmary were in any condition to do battle against Figueroa and Pedersen or any other human taken over by the Goa'uld, and taking Teal'c away from his post at the door to subdue them would be an invitation to Murphy waiting in the wings. Frasier had wrapped some gauze around her own arm, though red was seeping through. She kept it close to her side, cradling it in her right.

            "Anything?" she asked.

            Teal'c favored her with a glance. "Nothing, Dr. Frasier. Though I would not expect anything this soon. Hopefully by now DanielJackson has reached his office and been able to contact Colonel O'Neill and Major Carter on the telephone." He looked thoughtfully back through the corridor. "If he is successful in that endeavor, there is always the possibility that DanielJackson will return and assault Private Murphy from the rear. That would strengthen our position considerably. Should Private Murphy be distracted by such an action, I could undoubtedly overpower him."

            "I'll say," Frasier grunted. "How are you holding up?"

            "I am well. My symbiote is endeavoring to heal my shoulder, though I do not expect it to complete the repairs for another one to two hours." Teal'c paused to listen once again, then continued. "And General Hammond?"

            "Holding his own," Frasier reported, "although I'm worried about that lung that he punctured. Teal'c, even if you do overpower Private Murphy out there, we can't move the general without killing him. We don't dare leave the infirmary. At least, not Hammond. And that means me, too."

            "I understand, Dr. Frasier." Teal'c kept his gaze on the corridor. "We shall endeavor to withstand the siege."

*          *          *

            Dr. Jackson took a moment to stretch. It had been a tight fit, squirming up through the air ducts to a site not far from the entrance to the Cheyenne Mountain base. It had been a long journey, fraught with terror that Nwembe or one of his crew would catch him. But he had made it, and all eight crystals from the artifacts had gone with him.

            "Get to a working phone," he repeated to himself once again. The nearest working phone was in town in Carter's house, and to get there Jackson would need a car. His own was in the parking garage, and the keys in his pocket. It was dark, closing in on midnight, which suited him just fine; it would only help him. He would liberate his car from the parking garage and drive straight to Carter's place. Hopefully it was only a windstorm that had broken the phone connection to Carter's house. Jackson hadn't forgotten his earlier inability to call her home before the power had been cut to the base. And, bottom line, he was worried about both Carter and O'Neill. There were eight artifacts, and Jackson had only seen Figueroa, Pederson, Nwembe, and the man at the armory. That left four more that Jackson didn't know about. He really hoped that they were on the base, and not going after the unsuspecting other two SG-1 team members.

            The darkness helped. Jackson tried to remember everything he'd learned from both O'Neill and Teal'c about sneaking around in the dark. There was rather a lot of it, and it seemed to work because no one approached him. He slipped his key into the car door lock, wincing at the sound of the anti-theft device. Still not a sound, no one coming around to see what the noise was, although he suspected they would as soon as he started the engine. He wished he'd taken the time to get it tuned up last time he was off the base. Waiting for the engine to warm up was not going to help.

            But still no one was there. It was only as he pulled out of the parking space that the lights flared on.

            "Oops," Jackson said, trying for O'Neill-like nonchalance, "busted." He didn't dare floor it for fear the little engine would flood, but he did make best time, pushing all four cylinders to their shrieking limit. At the moment he wished that he had given in to car lust, and bought the faster model on the market. He wished that he had the keys to O'Neill's car, tuned to within an inch of its life and able to routinely outrun the fastest of state troopers. He wished that he knew how to hotwire a car so that he didn't need O'Neill's keys.

            If wishes were horses…

            And he wished even harder when a large black sedan pulled out behind him.

            "Large black sedan," he muttered. "Isn't that a little trite?"

            Cliché or not, the sedan had a powerful eight cylinder under its hood and, Jackson suspected, a better driver. Jackson made time around the corners of the parking arena, his little Euro model taking the curves better, but once on the straightaway toward town the black sedan crept up on him like a shark looking over its prey.

            Jackson immediately starting wishing for a miracle, something like a nice state trooper armed with a really big handgun or perhaps even a convoy of trucks bringing supplies to the base. At midnight, the probability of a convoy hovered between slim and none, and the troopers tended to leave the base alone. Nice guys that they were, they were reluctant to hand out tickets to the soldiers on leave, and it was easier not to hand out tickets if you didn't patrol the base access road. Right now Jackson would give plenty to see a pair of dark sunglasses behind a blinking red light with a siren snarling, "pull over".

            Okay, by now he was flooring it. The engine was warm, the road was straight, and the speedometer was hitting one hundred. Unfortunately, the one hundred was on the kilometer side. Sixty was a bit wanting on the miles per hour side.

            It was time for strategy, also known as basic life-saving techniques. There were three curves coming up, each of which had a side that dropped off into sheer nothingness. It was the one part of coming to work at Cheyenne Mountain that Jackson despised. He never had a head for heights, and looking down over the cliffs was something he'd trained himself not to do.

            Jackson swerved to the center of the road, so that the sedan couldn't pass him or come alongside. He took the first curve as fast as he could, and congratulated himself on making it around successfully, even pulling away two car lengths when the sedan had to slow down to keep from going off the edge itself.

            The second curve didn't go as smoothly. The driver of the black sedan was ready for him, and tried to edge past him. Jackson jerked his own car in front of the sedan desperately, and ended up getting bumped from the rear for his trouble. He took the curve on two wheels, heart in his mouth, and pulled the car back onto the pavement. A cloud of dust fell over the guard rail at the edge, and Jackson didn't watch. As long as he wasn't going with it, he had more important things to worry about.

            One more curve, and the homestretch was all it would take. Maybe he had a chance to get there in one piece? Jackson almost looked forward to the sinewy piece of tarmac with the token guard rail. It would slow the sedan down, and Jackson would need all the head start he could muster for the final race to town. Jackson swerved to keep the sedan behind him. He headed for the curve at top speed, waiting until the last moment to touch the brake to keep at least two wheels on the road.

            The sedan roared up behind him—and didn't stop. It slammed into his back end and shoved the small car through the guard rail. Jackson's car careened off the road and into the air, doing a flip and a half with two bounces on the cliff face.

            Two final thoughts jumped into Jackson's mind: one, the cliff wasn't as tall as he'd originally thought and two, there was a river below. No, there was a third thought—after all he'd been through, he actually would get to die on good old Earth. Strange how things worked out.

*          *          *

            Nwembe brought the sedan to a screeching halt just inches away from jumping through the hole in the now damaged guard rail. He was a careful man and that set well with the controlling Goa'uld device; he got out of the sedan to peer over the edge, needing to be certain of Jackson's demise. There he saw Jackson's car sinking swiftly into the cold river, front first and trunk sticking up in the air. He saw a figure in the front seat of the car, not moving.

            Nwembe considered. Then he opened his own cell phone, with a recently charged battery, and contacted Schmidt.

            "No. Moravian and Chung have not yet checked in."

            "It is likely that they have failed. Take Lee and stand guard at the main entrance. When O'Neill and Carter arrive, as I have no doubt they will, shoot them. I believe I have succeeded with Dr. Jackson. He is dead."

            "That is within mission parameters. But, Nwembe," Schmidt stopped him. "I checked Dr. Jackson's office again, as you instructed. The crystals are gone."

            "Gone?"

            "Yes. All eight were removed from the fake artifacts."

            "Then Dr. Jackson has them," Nwembe realized. "We must recover them immediately. I will remain here and find them. They may be in the car, or they may be on Jackson's body. Either way, I will have them in my possession once again." He returned to the sedan and turned it around to head for the base of the cliff. There were picnic tables there, and a dirt-covered parking area. It wouldn't be hard to get there, and would not arouse suspicion. The roads were roundabout, but Nwembe had plenty of time. It was only an hour or so after midnight. Darkness would not lift until at least seven o'clock in the morning, and even then Nwembe doubted that he would be bothered by many picnickers. Autumn had turned the air too cold for comfort.

*          *          *

            "Wake up, Carter."

            "I'm awake!"

            "Right." O'Neill headed into the first curve before the final straightaway to Cheyenne Mountain. "Looks like somebody took out the guard rail. Again." He frowned. "That wasn't there yesterday. Hope that wasn't one of our people that did that."

            "It looks fresh," Carter said, dismayed.

            "It'll have to wait, Carter. We've got more important problems ahead." O'Neill took the curve faster than he should. But he kept all four wheels on the pavement, not even thinking about the quality of the car that allowed him to pull such stunts.

*          *          *

            "How much ammunition do they have?" Frasier asked, trying to keep the despair out of her voice.

            "They have access to the armory," Teal'c returned. "We are fortunate that they have not yet brought up the laser cannons, or explosives. They appear intent on using small weaponry."

            "Big enough," Frasier grumbled, swaying.

            Teal'c allowed his attention to be draw away from the door long enough to ease the woman to the floor. "You should rest, Doctor Frasier. You too have been injured."

            "Hammond needs care," Frasier objected.

            "You have spent the last hour ministering to him, and to Privates Marino and Green. It will do General Hammond no good if you wear yourself out too much to perform your duties."

            Marino spoke up. "Ma'am, he's right. You need to rest, too." He struggled to his feet, grabbing on to the nearest table to balance himself—it had been his knee that Pedersen had shot—and limped over to them. "Teal'c, I can't run very far or very fast, but I can stand guard. Take a break."

            Teal'c considered the private's condition thoughtfully. "You are capable of standing guard?"

            "As long as it doesn't involve the fifty yard dash."

            "I see you are studying Colonel O'Neill's practice of amusing and nonessential declarations. However, this is fortunate, and suggests a plan for extricating ourselves from this situation."

            "I thought we were going to wait for Colonel O'Neill and Major Carter," Frasier objected.

            "I believe this will be the better option and, indeed, the only one should Colonel O'Neill and Major Carter be unable to assist us." Teal'c paused. "Do not you humans have a saying: 'The Lord helps those who help themselves'?"

            "And Lord help those who get caught helping themselves," Marino muttered, very quietly.

*          *          *

            "All right, Carter, there's two of 'em." O'Neill returned from his scouting trip. "And that's all that I could find. Think you can snipe one of 'em with a busted wing, while I get the other?"

            "Sir, we can't do that," Carter objected. "They're—"

            "Carter, those two are part of whoever—or whatever—took over the base. We can do what we damn well please!"

            "Yes, sir. I mean, no, sir. I mean—sir, those are our own people down there! We can't just shoot them!"

            "What are you talking about, Carter?"

            "Sir, those are Lt. Schmidt and Corporal Lee. They're two of Captain Nwembe's men. I met them a few weeks ago when I was working with Capt. Nwembe." She handed him the binoculars. "See for yourself."

            "I've already seen them, up close and personal," O'Neill grumbled, acknowledging her recognition. "Damn. This makes things tough. I can see someone getting pissed if I shoot them." Then he brightened. "Think maybe they sold out to the Russians? Not the Goa'uld?"

            "Sir, the Russians are now our allies."

            "Some allies. Can't trust 'em. How about a terrorist group? They could've sold out to a terrorist group."

            "Sir, you have a zat gun in your trunk," Carter reminded him.

            O'Neill glared at her. "You take all the fun out of life, you know that, Carter?"

            "Yes, sir."

            "Wait here. You're my back-up." He handed her the P-90 and went to do his job. His non-lethal job. Grumbling.

*          *          *

            Teal'c was annoyed. There was nothing wrong with his memory. He had studied the layout of Stargate Command, including any avenue for escape or attack, and knew both the hallways and the behind the wall air ducts intimately. He had even directed DanielJackson to the nearest egress through the afore-mentioned air ducts. But the sealing of the bulkheads around the infirmary had disrupted that pattern, and he found himself needing to make many detours to get to where he wished to be. He would still arrive at his destination, though it would be many minutes later than he had anticipated.

            He flexed his shoulder. Not yet completely healed—he had lied to Dr. Frasier, and regretted the necessity—but sufficiently usable that it would not delay him unduly. And, as Colonel O'Neill was fond of saying, failure was not an option.

            He stood along the corridor, two turns away from the infirmary, and listened. He listened for the sound of breathing, for the click of the automatic machine gun that Murphy carried. He was able to estimate Murphy's position along the next corridor, and how long it would take the Jaffa to arrive at that position.

            For a big man, Teal'c was astoundingly quiet. Nothing betrayed him as he crept silently but swiftly up behind Private Murphy.

            "Private Murphy."

            Murphy swung around in surprise, gun swinging up to bear. Teal'c delivered a single, solid punch that knocked the man out cold, and rescued the weapon before it could clatter to the ground.

            Teal'c eyed Murphy for one moment longer, to be certain that the man would provide no more distractions. "It is safe," he called out. "You may open the door."

*          *          *

            Nwembe removed his shoes and walked into the cold Cheyenne River. The body's original voice objected as loudly as it could, but the result was unsuccessful. The controlling Goa'uld crystal directed the body to ignore the risks of immersion in the chilly water and explore the interior of the sunken car. It was imperative that the crystals be recovered, so that Nwembe and his team could continue with their mission to assassinate the SG- 1 team. When that had been accomplished, the surviving Goa'uld controlled humans would attempt to open the Stargate for Goa'uld incursions. The success of that part of the mission was less likely, but that wouldn't stop the crystal-devices from trying.

            So the mission drove Nwembe into the river. When he had waded far enough he surface-dove in the general direction of Jackson's submerged car. He surfaced long enough to take a deep breath, and then plunged down to examine the vehicle.

            The results were not encouraging. The body of Daniel Jackson was missing; Nwembe would not be able to verify the death of the human. And of the crystals, there was nothing to be seen. Nwembe thoroughly searched the ruined and waterlogged car, surfacing twice to replenish his air, and found nothing.

            The body ran out of oxygen yet again, and Nwembe surfaced. There was nothing further to be gained from remaining with the vehicle. He hadn't much time. He must recover the crystals as quickly as possible, to prevent the Tau're from learning just how to reverse the effect of those crystals on these bodies and restore the men to normal. That would destroy any chance of success.

            He looked around him. It was difficult to see in the dark, and there was little moonlight to aid him. He focused on one object, only to decide that it was a tree. So was another, with a rock sticking up out of the water toward one side.

            Nwembe looked again at the first tree stump, swirling in the water, harder this time. The stump was curiously misshapen, twisting around in the flowing water. As he watched, a strong current swept it up and carried it into the center of the river at a faster and faster pace.

            Jackson had escaped.

            The Goa'uld device cursed silently, taking advantage of the host's knowledge of Ibo invective. The brains of this body did not carry the knowledge of this particular strip of land; the real Nwembe had spent the majority of his time inside of Cheyenne Mountain, and his leave time was devoted to charitable works aimed at the nation of his youth. But he did know that this river contained many small sections of white water, rough rock-strewn channels that could pound a human body into senseless clay. It would undoubtedly kill his prey, but that was no longer Nwembe's only goal.

            He needed to re-acquire those crystals.

*          *          *

            O'Neill felt much better. He was in his element. That is, he was sneaking around, something that he was a master of. Carter was up on the hill, watching through binoculars, ready to come charging in with guns blazing if this went south. Well, maybe not charging, really. Limping, sort of, with a gun in her one good hand. But she was up there, watching.

            O'Neill decided not to count on her support.

            There were two of them, guarding the main entrance, trying to look inconspicuous. It was pretty clear that someone had stationed them there. It was equally obvious that the pair hadn't received anything more than the basic training that the Air Force handed out, which made sense since one of them looked awfully like that Schmidt fellow that was hanging around that Nwembe fellow that was hanging around Carter a few weeks ago. Strange fellow, that Nwembe. Most guys O'Neill knew would be drooling over her bod. Nwembe actually paid attention to her brains, of which O'Neill was more than happy to admit that she had plenty of. But any man that didn't appear to appreciate Carter's more obvious assets was someone that O'Neill was suspicious of, and anyone hanging around anyone who didn't appreciate Carter's… crap. Anyone who didn't understand O'Neill's thinking was gonna get shot so that O'Neill didn't have to explain himself anymore.

            He snuck up behind the pair. Which one to take down first? Decisions, decisions. He decided to attack the one he didn't know, a freckle-faced kid that looked to be half O'Neill's age. The name on the kid's collar said Lee. Okay, Lee was going down first. If Schmidt was smart, he'd stay out of the way until O'Neill was ready for him.

            It didn't work out that way. O'Neill popped up with a zat gun and fired directly at Lee. The kid went down faster than a gopher down its den. Schmidt, on notice, dove for cover. O'Neill tried to zap him as well, but the guardhouse got in the way.

            O'Neill grinned. Schmidt was going to make this difficult. That was a good thing, because O'Neill was ready for some action. He'd played nanny for the last three days getting Daniel's artifacts home, he'd played nurse getting Carter home, now it was time to do some real work. He shoulder-rolled behind a couple of barrels. Schmidt obligingly peppered the barrels with gunfire. Real bullets.

            Good. A challenge. O'Neill zatted the flag, which didn't care. Schmidt put a flurry of more bullets into the dirt at O'Neill's feet, kicking up a small dust cloud that didn't hamper O'Neill's vision in the slightest since it was already dark. Must be just after midnight, he realized happily. Best time of day to be awake. He feinted out from the barrels, and drew Schmidt's fire.

            Schmidt pulled back. Empty, O'Neill smirked. Takes a professional ten seconds to ram home another clip, an amateur maybe fifteen. Any more than that and O'Neill would send Schmidt back to Air Force Basic Training. He darted out to take advantage of those seconds, listening hard for the sound of a clip locking into place into a P-90.

            The click never came. O'Neill aimed the zat at Schmidt, and realized that the man was already out cold on the ground.

            O'Neill frowned. Had he gotten lucky with the zat gun? No, couldn't have; Schmidt was emptying his clip after O'Neill had fired the zat. Then what the hell had happened?

            O'Neill approached cautiously, toeing the P-90 far enough away that Schmidt couldn't leap for it, and neither would Lee if the kid woke up unexpectedly.

            He nudged Schmidt. "Wake up."

            Nothing. He nudged Schmidt again. Schmidt was convincingly limp. O'Neill stuck the zat into his waistband and reached to check out Schmidt, waiting for the man to suddenly jump up and attack.

            Still nothing. Okay, this was strange. And for strange stuff, he wanted Carter. Okay, he really wanted Teal'c and his muscle, but Carter was a good second choice. He waved her down.

            She trotted down from the hillside, binoculars fastened to her belt and the gun still in her good hand. "Nice work, sir."

            "Thanks, but I didn't do it," O'Neill said. "Or at least, I only did half of it. Schmidt here just kinda took a dive."

            "Sir?"

            "I mean, I didn't shoot him. I didn't zap him, either. He didn't fall off a rooftop, he didn't run into my fist, and I don't know why he's taking a nap. Do you?"

            "Uh, no, sir. Maybe we ought to look around inside the base?"

            "I knew I brought you along for something, Carter. Best idea you've had yet."

*          *          *

            Need to hide the crystals. Jackson vaguely remembered chanting about finding a working phone, but right now hiding the damn crystals from the Goa'uld-possessed Nwembe seemed a lot more important. There were eight of them—Jackson felt a moment of panic when he could only count six. Then he remembered; he had dropped one when he crawled out of the cold water, sopping wet. The crystal had broken into two shards, and he thought he remembered leaving them on the ground, glinting in the starlight. He remembered that it hurt to bend over to pick them up, and made him dizzy, which is why he left them behind, even though Nwembe was after them, and him. That was okay. He could keep just the six from Nwembe.

Thinking hurt.

That still didn't sound right. Eight minus one was seven. Jackson had had eight crystals in his pocket when he crawled out of his car and cracked up again a hefty rock in the middle of a hefty and swift moving Cheyenne River. Dammit, he liked that car. Great on gas mileage, just enough room for a suitcase and a load of texts whenever he needed to go to a seminar.

            Wait a minute. Focus, Daniel. There were eight crystals. He had counted six. Number eight crystal was now number eight and number nine with the two halves on the rock at his feet. Where was number seven? Jackson looked again at the bag he'd snatched up, and now saw fourteen, give or take a few. Damn. Double vision. Concussion. Well, that explained the killer migraine. He decided to let somebody else worry about how many crystals there were.

            Gotta hide the crystals. Big tall guy with Goa'uld-fried brains coming to get them. And him. Jackson tried to shove the bag under a tree root but the four hands that he saw made it difficult. He tried with just the two right hands, but his fingers were numb from the icy water of the Cheyenne River, and kept bumping into stray tree roots. Finally he just gave up, closed his eyes, and stuck the bag under the tree root by feel.

            Finished. Now gotta get away from this spot. Mustn't lead Nwembe-Goa'uld to this place. He persuaded his numb fingers to help him get up onto numb feet, staggering off and bouncing from tree to tree.

            Least I haven't fallen down yet. That would be bad.