`Reputation is what other people know about you. Honor is what you know about yourself.' . . . .Lois McMaster Bujold

* * * * *

My gramps once had a cat that meowed all the time. Loud. You ignored it, it meowed. You petted it, it meowed more. Full, hungry . . . cold, warm . . . inside, outside - meow, meow . . . meow, meow . . . meow, meow. I kid you not. Even in its sleep, albeit at a softer, less annoying volume. Was it in pain? The vet said no. Was it crazy? My dad said yes. Gramps said the cat just had a lot on its mind. But, whatever its reason, the thing lived for 17 years and it didn't shut up until the day it died. Maybe that's why it died . . . it had finally gotten everything off its furry little chest.

Anyway, that's me. I'm that damned cat, and I didn't even realize it until today. I mean, I've always known I lean towards diarrhea of the mouth, but today was a real eye opener. It dawned on me as I sat there in the briefing room, rambling on about hockey stats and the origin of the term `dog days' - which, by the way, has absolutely nothing to do with dogs.

"It actually goes back to the Romans and the fact that Sirius, or the Dog Star as it's commonly known, added its heat to that of the sun. The Roman word for those days was `caniculares.'"

I looked up to find Daniel's mouth hanging open, and Carter staring at me with her big blue eyes all bugged out. I glanced at Teal'c. He was frowning and had his eyes squeezed tightly closed. He looked like he was straining for a bit of the old kel-no-reem, either that or he was passing a stone.

We were waiting for Hammond to put in an appearance. Rather, they were waiting on him. I was more or less just hoping that a large hole had opened up in the floor behind the General's desk. Unfortunately, the odds were leaning in favor of my team's wish being granted rather than mine. So, I looked back down at the table, picked up my pen and beat an intricate tempo against the over-waxed, over-priced conference table. I was feeling pretty proud of my latent percussive talents until I heard the distinctive snap of a pencil. When I glanced up, Carter was glaring at me like I'd kicked her dog and was holding two pieces of what had been an otherwise perfect Sparco #2, medium soft.

"Funny thing - there's no lead in `pencil lead.'" I actually made the quote marks with my fingers . . . a move Carter hates, but one she's begun to mimic without realizing it.

She cocked her head Teal'c-like, but said nothing. Okay, so she was obviously unimpressed.

"Carter, did you know there are a possible 2,598,960 five-card hands in a deck of playing cards?"

"Uh, Jack . . .," Daniel hitched himself up in his chair.

"Well, then here's something I'll bet you didn't know: Attila the Hun died of a nosebleed on his wedding night. Can you believe that?"

"Jack . . ."

"And Thomas Jefferson died of dysentery." I resumed tapping.

"Are you okay?"

I looked up at Daniel, a polite half-smile plastered on my face. Was I okay? What, was the guy an idiot? Of course, I was okay. And that's when it hit me: the whole cat analogy thing.

My smile faded. I was no different than gramps' psychotic feline running off at the mouth . . . never saying anything; never shutting up. I suppose, like Fluffy, I'll finally shut up when I die. God, I hope so anyway. Unfortunately, if history serves, I seriously doubt my demise will be brought about by getting a load off my fuzzy chest, and I doubt they'll find my dead body contentedly curled up on grandma's favorite afghan with my toes tucked around my nuts.

I spied movement in Hammond's office and dropped my pen, my hands automatically squeezing into tight fists.

I could tell Daniel was worried by his tone of voice. "Jack, what's the . . ."

"People, I apologize for the delay."

Ah, simultaneously saved and condemned by two shiny little stars . . . which just goes to show that assholes really do come in all shapes and sizes.

Okay. So that wasn't entirely fair, but ever since Hammond had approached me two days earlier, I hadn't exactly felt like skipping through the rose garden with the guy. Part of the problem is that it came out of left field - honest to God, I never saw it coming. The other part of the problem is that I don't appreciate my friends being dragged through the mud - especially when I'm the jackass Uncle Sam harnesses up to the damn rope.

* * * * *

PX2666, despite its somewhat suspect designation, had been a cakewalk. A soggy cakewalk granted, but a simple trip nonetheless - particularly in light of SG1's tendency to accept only missions that were headed due south.

When we bounced onto the ramp in the gate room, we were facing the usual contingency of SF's. Over the years I've developed a bit of a thick skin but still, it's a little freaky to pop into existence to find your own men pointing cocked and loaded weapons at your scrawny little chest. I'll tell you one thing, it sure makes personnel evaluations interesting. On Monday, you don't want to tell Lieutenant Sikes that if he doesn't take his work more seriously he's going back on tour duty at the front door, and then on Tuesday have him pointing a P90 at the middle of your forehead.

So, unless I've got a butt-load of Jaffa or a wormhole full of huge, honkin' bugs hot on my tail, I try to enter with a pleasant smile and a flourish. Which I did.

"Lucy, I'm home," I sang out in my best Ricky Ricardo voice. I heard Carter snort in amusement. Everyone else pretty much ignored me but, hey, the SF's lowered their guns so it got the job done. Dripping alien rain onto the cement floor, I unloaded about 25 pounds of P90, 9mm's, knives, ammo, brass knuckles - okay, so I'm a little too thorough - and my Zat, then smiled down at Hammond, who had decided it was finally safe to approach us.

"Colonel, I take it things went well."

"Sir, you'll be happy to know that on the way back from the shower room, Carter found a bucketful of special dirt that made her extremely happy." I removed my rain poncho and shook it a little harder than necessary. Hammond stepped back, frowning at the droplets already drying on the front of his shirt.

"General, from all indications there are trace deposits of naquadah on 666."

"Carter," I frowned over at her.

"Oh, sorry, Colonel. On Planet Armageddon." She smiled down at Hammond like she'd just discovered the lost City of Atlantis, which maybe she had.

"Very good, Major." Hammond nodded a bit dourly, then looked over at the others. "SG1 get checked out and hit the showers. We'll debrief in one hour."

"Yes, sir." I headed for the door along with my team.

"Jack."

I momentarily froze, then swung around to face him. Jack? Jack?

"Could I see you in my office?" Hammond studied me closely. "Now, please, Colonel."

Oh, this could not be good.

It wasn't.

* * * * *

I waited until the General sat down behind his desk and motioned me to the hot seat. I lowered myself onto the chair rather stiffly, a fact which for once had absolutely nothing to do with my aching back and gimpy knee.

Hammond studied some papers laying on his desk, then opened his drawer and fiddled with something I couldn't see. A few moments later, empty-handed, he shut the drawer, straightened the papers and cleared his throat. Finally, he looked at me for what felt like the first time in months.

"Jack, we have a problem."

No shit, Sherlock. "Uh, sir, if there's going to be a pink slip included with my measly little paycheck, just tell me now. I can take it."

Crap. Not even a hint of a smile. Okay. Unfortunately, I can do serious just as well as I can do comic relief.

"What's wrong, General?" My mind was flipping through all the possibilities - budget cuts, foothold, a team stranded off-world or, worse, killed. Maybe the General was sick. He did look a bit pale. Oh, God. Something had happened to Kayla. Or Tessa. That was it. The poor guy was-

"I understand you're friends with a Major Sebastian Martin."

"Huh?" It wasn't my best comeback, but it was the best I could do given the circumstances. "Bastar-I mean, Marty? Yeah. Why, what's happened?"

Hammond raised what should have been a calming hand. "Major Martin is fine, Jack. But he may be in a bit of trouble."

"Trouble?" I still felt like my system was firing on about half of my available synapses - and yes, I do know the meaning of the word. Last I'd heard, Bastard Martin was heavily involved in some kind of technologies research. I'd harassed him to no end about trading in his flak jacket for a lab coat. "He's working out of Wright-Patterson," I offered, as if no trouble could possibly derive from a scientist based in Ohio.

"No. No, he's not."

"He was."

Hammond nodded. "He transferred three years ago."

"Three. . .," I cringed. I considered Bastard one of my oldest friends. We'd gone through combat training together; then he'd signed up for Special Forces training with me, but had opted out four weeks into the program. I hadn't held it against him. Hell, a lot of guys, especially the smart ones, dropped out when they saw what the training involved. I would have, too, if I weren't so bull-headed. Still, it was hard to believe that I hadn't been in touch with the guy for over three . . . well, over four years, and that had been by email. What did that say about me as a friend? I glanced down at my crooked, twiddling thumbs. "I . . . I didn't know that."

"He's Area 51, Jack." He said it hesitantly, like it was a label, and I suppose in a way it was.

I glared across the desk at Hammond in total disbelief. "NID?" my voice cracked slightly.

"Not officially."

I huffed softly and looked over Hammond's shoulder at the porcelain eagle that I knew had been a gift from his deceased wife. That bird looked so real; the only things that gave it away as being fake were its size and the fact that it hadn't moved so much as a single feather in all the years it had sat there. No real bird could hold that outstretched position after all this time, not even one that was good at pretending. I looked back at Hammond.

"He's not."

"Jack . . ."

"Sir. I know him. Marty would never stoop to working for them."

For the first time today, the General smiled. Kindly. I have to tell you, it pissed me off. "That's what we want you to find out."

My heart sank. My old, tired, dented, hardened heart sank right down onto the top of my stomach leaving me slightly nauseated. "Sir, please." I had left all that behind me. Hadn't I?

"There's a leak at 51."

Now I was the one who wouldn't look at him. I stared down at my own lap, then glanced at my knee which had inexplicably begun to throb - perhaps a delayed reaction to all the rain and muck we'd just slogged through.

"According to an anonymous source . . ."

I laughed softly.

"According to an anonymous source, researchers at 51 have been studying some new alien technology that came into their hands a little over three months ago."

"What'd they steal this time?"

He didn't even try to defend them. What was the point? "That was unclear."

"Of course it was," I squinted over at him with my best `watch where you're treading' smile. No way Bastard was a thief.

"Apparently, whatever it was, they've . . . misplaced it."

Oh, this was just getting better and better. I rubbed my knee with one hand, then ran the same hand through my hair before settling back in my seat.

"All we've been told is that this . . . technology is considered a serious threat to national security, it's missing, and somehow your Major Martin is involved."

My Major Martin? I actually smiled at that one. "So what do we want me to do about it?"

"You've been ordered to contact Martin. Find out what he knows, what his involvement is, and if possible, retrieve the object in question."

I sat quietly waiting for the punch line. I didn't have to wait long.

"Without the knowledge of the NID or the powers that be at 51."

* * * * *

Four and a half hours later, I was circling high above the Nevada landscape preparing to land at Nellis AFB. I had opted to be chauffeured on this one. I didn't have to. I could have piloted myself, but my mind was reeling with memories and with questions and with . . . disappointment. As second nature as it might be, flying was not something I felt comfortable doing unless I could give it my full attention, and that wasn't going to happen . . . not this time.

I stared down at the little aluminum case sitting on the floor near my feet. Carter had been pissed, to say the least. Can't say as I blamed her. I stared back out the window feeling a bit PO'ed myself. But, as someone once said, `orders is orders.'

Thirty-five minutes later, I stood waiting in a glossy white hallway inside an innocuous looking, metal building. I saw him coming from 60 feet away. I would have recognized him immediately, even if I hadn't been expecting him. A 5-foot, 10-inch powerhouse that still walked slightly too far forward over short, wide feet. Despite the circumstances, I felt a genuine smile building.

"Jonathon Jackass O'Neill." Marty's round face lit up. "My God. I can't believe it."

"Bastard," I grabbed the hand he held out and pulled him into a classic O'Neill bear hug. He returned it with enthusiasm, and laughing softly, we pounded each other on the back. "How're you doing?"

He took a step back and looked me up and down, still smiling. "Look at you." He rubbed a hand along the lapel of my crisp blue suit, then flicked a fingertip against the lens of my sunglasses. "Who'd've thunk it, huh? A smart-ass like you making colonel." He shook his head in disbelief.

Hating myself, hiding behind the dark lenses, I studied his face, looking for anything that might be different about him, anything that might press any panic buttons. Thankfully, there was nothing. He was the same old, ugly Bastard I'd known for over 20 years. Just greyer and a few pounds heavier. I tapped him on the gut.

"Congratulations. When's that thing due?"

He patted his stomach with both hands, smiling. "I, uh, I don't get out much nowadays. Stuck in here, mostly. Besides, marriage'll do that."

I suddenly noticed the ring. "You're kidding. You finally found someone who'd take you? What'd it cost you?"

His laughter made all the years between us slip away, and his eyes lit up. Hammond was wrong. Hammond and his `anonymous source' - they were both full of shit.

"Her name's Barb. She's great, Jack. You'd love her. She's . . . hey, you gotta head back right away? I'd love for you to meet her."

"Actually," I shifted my weight, "no. I'm catching a flight back tomorrow. I was hoping you could point me to a good hotel."

"Hotel? You kidding? Barb would kill me. You'll stay with us. We'll throw something on the grill."

"Well, I don't know. Maybe I sh-"

"Bullshit. It's settled." He shook his head again, then for the first time he seemed to look a bit lost. "So what brings you here, Jack?"

"Um," I glanced over at the guard who was standing behind the front desk, and who'd been pretending not to see or hear the two senior officers standing less than three feet in front of him. I smiled back at Bastard, then nodded at the aluminum carrying case. "Delivery man."

"Must be some important delivery."

"It is."

I slipped off the glasses, finally allowing him access to my eyes. His mouth turned up in the faintest of smiles as he studied my face.

"Why don't we talk in my lab?"

* * * * *

My stomach cramping under the strain of an over-sized tbone steak and baked potato, I thought about how easy it had been handing off Carter's mineral sample to my old friend. I felt bad that Carter had had to give up her little ball of dirt, but all in all, it was worth the cost of admission to Area 51 and to Marty.

My jacket tossed aside, I sank back onto the sofa cushions and took another sip of my cold beer. Marty had just spent the last half hour regaling me with how he and Barb had met. They'd been married a little over a year and it was written all over their faces. I felt a pang that wasn't indigestion as I recalled that feeling of new love. I hoped, someday, to be lucky enough to feel it again.

"So, Jack," Barb smiled pleasantly, "Sebastian says that you and he spent a lot of time together in the 80's."

"Ah, the good old days. Hey, Marty?" I lifted my beer in a parody of a toast. I'd dropped the `Bastard' after receiving a worried look from the bride.

"Is that what they were?" He was sitting in a chair across from me, with Barb squeezed in beside him. He rested a hand on her bare calf and gently rubbed her tanned skin.

I watched that hand with interest. Unlike mine, it was pale and soft and free of scars. I looked back up at his face, at the smooth, wrinkle-free skin. In comparison, I was dark and rough. Burnt brown by alien winds and suns, my face had been lined by worry, stress, unimaginable pain and not a small helping of guilt. I shook myself out of my fugue and found Marty staring back at me, frowning slightly as if he were reading the train of my thoughts. He lightly patted Barb's leg and in answer to his unspoken request, she slipped away into the other room.

We sat there for a few minutes, not speaking. I gulped down the remainder of my beer and set the empty bottle on the table next to the sofa.

"She's nice. I'm happy for you."

"Thanks." Marty blinked and refusing to look at me, he began peeling the label off his beer bottle. "I think I've disappointed you, what with my . . . career change and all."

I didn't respond. I didn't need to.

"I've always admired you, Jack. Ever since the first time I met you. I was just a geek from a small town in the Midwest. A little too smart, a lot afraid, and not . . . well, not Air Force material, to be perfectly honest. I knew that. Hell, the only thing I had in common with anybody was that most of us had only signed up to piss off our folks." He chuckled softly, and finally glanced at me. "It worked, by the way."

I smiled and nodded my head, but said nothing.

"Do you remember the first thing you ever said to me?"

"No." Hell, I couldn't remember the first thing I'd said to him today.

"I do."

I'd never thought about it before, but now I was wracking my brain to come up with what I could have said that had made such a lasting impression.

"You said, `you coming with us.'"

I raised my eyebrows and stared over at him. "That's it?"

"Yeah. That's it. `You coming with us.'" He smiled. "Doesn't sound like much, huh? But you just assumed I was part of the group and for somebody like me that was . . .," he shook his head, apparently at a loss for words.

"Listen, Martin . . ."

"Don't call me that, Jack. It doesn't suit you."

I laughed and glanced towards the doorway through which Barb had disappeared.

"She's just never heard it. Nobody else calls me that. In fact, you're the only one to ever call me `bastard' that didn't mean it."

"Hey," I pointed a long finger at him, "I mean it. Okay? Just so you know."

"Sure, sure." He waved me away. "You've always been good at this. You were cut out for what you do."

Killing? I flinched and picked at a loose thread on the arm of the sofa.

"I just want to make a difference, Jack. Like you. You've always made a difference, no matter what you did. You did it right. You did it good."

"You're wrong."

"No. No, I'm not." He pointed at the blue jacket tossed on the back of the sofa. Row upon row of ribbons and medals gleamed in the dim light.

I thought of all the lives that had been changed because of my career. It wasn't something I cared to dwell on, but enemies, targets . . . even they have families and friends. I started to pick up my beer bottle, remembered it was empty, and went back to toying with the thread. "Making a difference isn't necessarily a good thing."

"In the face of that," he pointed again towards my jacket, "can you honestly deny that you haven't excelled at your job?"

"That's not what I said."

Marty smiled and I was suddenly reminded of Daniel. "No. No, it wasn't."

He reached over and picked up the remote control, flipping on a large television in the corner of the room. Sound obscenely filled the room and he cursed as he fumbled for the mute button. We were plunged into silence. He flipped through a few channels before stopping on an old rerun of Star Trek. I watched, curious, as Captain Kirk was shot with some sort of laser gun. The actor's face screwed up, reddened, and his entire body convulsed before he dramatically collapsed onto the floor. I fidgeted, knowing that scene would flash before my eyes the next time I was shot with a Zat.

"I'm sorry if I've disappointed you, I really am. But there's nothing wrong with what I'm doing."

I tore my eyes away from a recovering Kirk and looked at my old friend. "Are you sure?"

He squirmed in his chair.

I watched him closely, knowing I would recognize the truth when I saw it on his face. "You've lost something, Marty."

He paled slightly. It was the only sign, but it was enough, and I felt something deep inside me tear and begin to ache. I knew from experience that it was only a matter of time before that soft, hurting piece of me hardened into a shield around the part of me that used to care.

"You'd better be talking about my integrity, Jack."

"You tell me. Am I?" I stared him down.

If I'd harbored any doubts, his response settled them. "Who sent you?"

Stunned that this man I thought I'd known was involved in this, I shook my head and chuckled without humor. Giving him one last look, I got up and left the room. I passed through the kitchen on my way outside, coming face to face with Barb.

"Jack? Everything okay? Can I get you anything?"

Did she know? I studied her face, but saw no guile there. "No. I just . . . I need some fresh air. Thanks." I headed for the back door and the solitude of the patio.

"I'm glad you came, Jack. I've heard so many things about you, it's nice to put a face to the name." She smiled as she absently wiped at the pristine counter top with a sponge.

I stared at her and, honest to God, couldn't come up with a single thing to say in response. I didn't even know this woman, but I felt bad for her. I wanted her to know the Bastard that I'd known for so many years. He was the guy you called when you found out you were getting shipped to the Middle East, and you were excited and scared shitless at the same time. Without being asked, he arranged to have your lawn mowed when you were a POW and your wife could barely keep your kid fed, let alone take care of a yard. Together, he and Frank had taken me out and gotten me drunk when Sara had called to tell me we were expecting Charlie. And after Charlie had died, when Frank had been relegated to the ranks of non-existence, it was Marty who'd risked the same treatment at my unforgiving hands by trying to force me to live again.

I smiled at Barb whose head was bent in concentration on her task, and quietly slipped outside into the dark. I stood out there on the edge of their neat little patio and looked up at the stars. I was still standing there over an hour later when Martin joined me. A radio blared somewhere in the distance; it was the only noise between us for a long while.

"Your cactus is dying."

"Jack . . ."

"They need more water than most people think. You can't just plant them and ignore them." I waited a beat, maybe two, before continuing. "It's not right."

He glanced at me, then looked away as if surprised.

I'd had time to think, to compose myself and to shelve my anger. "I'm going to ask you two questions, Martin, and I want you to think very carefully before you answer them." I turned to face him. Almost reluctantly, he pulled his eyes up to meet mine and nodded, giving me permission to continue. "Did you know what you were getting into when you came here?"

He was already shaking his head before I was finished. "No, Jack. Someone approached me a few months before I made the actual transfer. I was told that the research here was in line with what I was doing . . . defense technology. But things here were years ahead. Tremendous steps were being made; more money was available with fewer restrictions."

"And that raised no red flags for you." I couldn't keep the snideness from my voice.

"Yeah, Jack, it did. But I was willing to overlook a few things to get what I wanted. Something I'm sure you've never done."

I felt my anger returning. "I've spent my life doing the shit work for people like you, Martin. People that hide behind their office doors and their lab coats." I was being unfair, but I didn't give a damn and I couldn't stop myself. "I've done a lot of things I'm not proud of, things I never would have thought I was capable of doing, and I've hurt a lot of people. But I always did them for the right reasons."

"And I didn't?" He stared at me, his left eye twitching slightly. "We're after the same things, Jack."

"Don't . . .," I raised my hand along with my voice, then stopped myself. I wasn't sure whether I'd actually meant to hit him, but for Martin's sake . . . for Barb's, I shoved my hands deep into my pockets. "A lot of good people have given their lives in the course of making allies, then your organization sneaks in behind our backs and steals from the very people we're counting on to help us. Tell you what, I'll arrange to have a list of the dead sent to you so you can call them by name when you meet them in your nightmares."

"I don't have nightmares, Jack. That's your area. Next question."

I swallowed down a knot of anger and the hard shield inside me grew. Even as I watched, Bastard's face dissolved and was replaced with the face of this stranger I didn't know.

"I have a job to do. You don't want to be standing in the way when I do it."

He smiled and squinted up at me, almost as if he expected us to remain friends. "That wasn't a question, Jack."

"Yes. It was." I smiled back at him, coldly. "Are you going to stand in my way, Martin? Or are you going to help me?"

We looked at each other for what felt like a long time. Finally, he snorted softly and looked out across his small backyard before turning back towards the house.

"I'm going to bed, Jack. I suggest you do the same."

* * * * *

Breakfast was unpleasant. Barb knew something had happened between us, and spent the entire meal juggling her loving husband on one hand and a guest she barely knew on the other. I was polite, but inside I was angry and disappointed and so many other things that I couldn't name them all. I'd spent the night pacing the guest room and trying not to think. One minute I was practicing my apology to Hammond; the next I was rehearsing a screaming tirade about the unfairness of involving me in this in the first place. No sleep last night, and the night before that we'd been on our little mission to Planet Armageddon. My off-world sleep was never sound. Actually, I couldn't remember the last full night's rest I'd had. The result was that I was tired and cranky, and being stiffly polite was the best I could manage.

The car ride with Martin was a relief. I didn't have to pretend any longer. I slumped against the passenger door and allowed the silence between us to fester. I stared out the window at the passing houses and kids on bikes and life in the American southwest. I'd reached a `zone' so to speak; distanced myself so much that we were a mile past the turnoff before I realized that Martin wasn't taking me to Nellis. I held my slumped position, but glanced over at him.

His face was unreadable. Nearly six miles later, he pulled off the highway and onto a small unpaved road. Curious, I sat up in my seat and studied the landscape. When we reached a tiny, diseased grove of trees, Martin circled them, stopped the car, and shut off the engine. We sat there in the silence, the interior of the car already growing warm under an early morning sun.

"You're not looking for a piece of alien technology."

"What?"

He ran a hand over the dash, wiping away a layer of dust. "You've probably been told that an object is missing. Odds are you've been instructed to find out what I know and to return the property to its rightful owner."

I didn't reply.

"There are three of them."

"How will I know what to look for?"

He smiled. "You won't." He looked out the windshield, studying the sky as if for rain. "On one of their last trips through the gate, our people managed to find something . . . interesting. We were looking at stealth technology. If we'd mastered it . . ."

"But you didn't."

"No. To be honest, I'm not sure we ever would have. In any event, it doesn't matter. They escaped."

Oh my God. "They escaped?" My heart was suddenly racing. What had our people done this time? "Martin?"

He suddenly looked frightened, as if the very admission allowed his fear to surface. "They were aliens, Jack. Real, live, honest-to-God aliens."

"Shit. Martin, what have you done?" I scrubbed a hand across my tired eyes.

"They were, I don't know, what you'd call shape-shifters, I guess. They'd been in containment for over a month before we were even told of their existence. Four researchers in my department. We were given access; instructed to perform whatever . . . experiments were necessary in order to recreate their ability to change themselves."

I leaned my head back against the seat and closed my eyes, feeling as if my world, quite literally, was careening out of control. "What happened?"

"Like I said, they just . . . escaped. We're not sure to where. They could be anywhere."

"When you say shape-shifters . . ."

"I've seen them change into different things. Birds, dogs, people. They're excellent mimickers. But always animate objects."

"When?"

"They disappeared nine days ago."

"Nine days?" The damned things had been on the loose for nine days and we were just now finding it out.

"We . . . we weren't exactly sure at first. Then, when we realized what had happened, we spent days searching the base. I mean, they could have assumed the shape of any one of us. They could have been hiding in plain sight and we wouldn't have known it."

"Did you ever see the `real' aliens?"

"They were beautiful really. Very tall, very thin. Their skin, if you want to call it that, was very . . . I don't know, elastic." Martin chuckled softly, as if in disbelief. "Aliens made of velvety soft, blue elastic. And they had the most expressive eyes. They were . . . kind-looking. At first anyway."

"Before the experiments," I guessed.

He nodded. "Yeah."

"Martin," I swallowed and joined him in staring past the windshield at the bleak landscape, "did you make a phone call?" Please say yes. Please tell me that you had a change of heart, that you were the leak.

He didn't respond, which in itself was an answer to my question. I sighed and closed my eyes, wondering how I could possibly fix this.

"I'm sorry, Jack."

I looked over at him. This scared man was so different from the cocky one who'd faced off against me on the terrace last night; if it hadn't already been too late, this man could almost be my old friend. "Why are you telling me this now?"

He hesitated. "Barb is pregnant."

"Good for her."

"But not for me?"

I didn't answer.

"I don't want to be another Frank Cromwell, Jack. I deserve better."

"Yeah? Well, newsflash you bastard, so did he."

* * * * *

"And Thomas Jefferson died of dysentery."

I knew my teammates were concerned, they were confused, and they were totally in the dark about where I'd been for the last two days. Actually, after spending an entire day lurking around the facilities at Area 51 under the pretense of waiting for the test results on Carter's dirt ball, I was more than a little concerned, confused and in the dark myself.

"Are you okay?" Just like in the field, Daniel was the group spokesman. "Jack, what's the . . ."

"People, I apologize for the delay."

Hammond slid into the chair at the head of the table and I forced my hands to unclench. I picked up my pen and opened the folder in front of me, staring at the blank, lined pad of paper inside. Even if I'd had anything substantive to offer, none of it could be put down in writing anyway. Why? Well, officially, there was no problem. No alien research project. No missing alien artefact. No missing aliens. No screwed up researchers playing God. No damned freakin' problem!

I sniffed and poured myself a glass of water, wishing I had a handful of aspirin to go with it.

"Major, would you care to present your report?"

"Uh, sir," Carter's hands were resting on her closed file, "permission to ask a question first?"

I felt the tiniest bit of satisfaction as I watched Hammond fidget in his chair. We both knew what was coming. The General's eyes flicked my way without actually reaching me. "Certainly."

"Was there a reason that I was not allowed to perform the tests on the soil sample from PX2666?"

Lacing my fingers together in church steeple fashion, I planted my elbows on the smooth table and rested my chin on my hands. I focused tired, bleary eyes on the wall behind Daniel's head. This should prove interesting.

"I'm sorry, Major Carter, that is on a need-to-know basis."

"Oh." I was aware of Carter glancing down at the folder in front of her as she realized her name was not on the `need-to-know' list. "In that case, General, may I ask if the sample is to be tested?"

Hammond looked at me and waved a finger towards Carter. With all the decorum of a bored high school teenager, I reached down and with a soft sigh pulled a two-page document from the pocket of my own folder, sliding it across the slick tabletop towards my second in command.

Frowning at me, she caught it, then looked down at the tiny columns of numbers and abbreviations. Her frown deepened and she glanced back up at me. "Sir, who performed these tests?"

I cleared my throat and took a slow sip of water, studiously ignoring the searching glances being passed between my three teammates.

"Major Carter," Hammond's southern drawl thickened, a sure indication that he was measuring what he said very carefully, "Colonel O(Neill personally delivered the soil sample to the researchers at Nellis. Is there any reason to think the results are not accurate?"

"Area 51?" Daniel blurted.

"No, sir, but I don't . . . ." Carter reconsidered what she was going to say. "No, sir."

"Very good. Now, if there are no other questions, Major . . . your report?"

"Yes, sir."

* * * * *

"Hey, Doc."

"Colonel?" Fraiser was obviously shocked to see me, but who could blame her? An unscheduled, non-emergency visit to the infirmary wasn't high on my `list of things I definitely want to do today.' She glanced around as if looking for something. Belatedly, I realized she was trying to figure out just who I was there to see.

"So . . . how's things?"

She swung back around to face me, looking puzzled - a look I seemed to be receiving quite often, particularly today. "Um," Doc forced a smile, "'things' are fine. Sir, is there something I can do for you?"

"Can't a guy just drop in to say hi?"

"Yes. Yes, a guy could do that."

I casually leaned against the doorframe and picked up a shiny metal object laying on a nearby tray. "How's Cassie doing?" One-handed, I flipped the object and caught it.

"She's . . . she's fine." Fraiser reached over and very gently, but firmly, removed the object from my hand. "That's, uh, that's a very expensive piece of equipment, sir."

"Oh. Sorry."

"Colonel, it's been a few days since you've been in, maybe I should give you a quick exam. Since you're here, that is."

I stood up straight and looked at her. "Why?"

"Well, for one thing, I understand you just got back from a trip somewhere and it's just a precaution. I'm sure I'm being overly paranoid, but it'll just take a few minutes." She smiled and pointed towards the nearest bed. "Please, sir."

I nodded, hesitantly. "Well . . . okay. If it'll make you feel better."

Ten minutes later, I was sitting on one of the narrow infirmary beds and Doc was standing with her back to me scribbling something in my chart. A curtain was drawn around us, giving us a flimsy semblance of privacy. I'd thought she was writing down my blood pressure, but she seemed to be taking a long time doing it.

"Anything wrong?"

"Hmm?" She tilted her head in my direction, but kept writing.

"I said, is anything wrong?"

She finished writing, dotted a couple of i's, crossed a couple of t's, and turned to face me. "Oh, no. Just making some notes."

D'uh. "So, can I go?"

"Yes. Everything checks out."

I started to hop down, inexplicably feeling a bit let down.

"Except . . ."

I froze. "Except?"

"Your blood pressure is a tad high. Nothing serious, but a bit high for you. And . . . have you been getting enough sleep, Colonel? You appear to be a little rundown."

Rundown? How about: freaked out; pissed off; mad as a hatter; disappointed; exhausted; angry as hell; sickened. All of the above. "Well, I have been on the go quite a bit, I guess." I shrugged. "Tiny little headache."

She was trying not to look smug. "How tiny?"

I held up my finger and thumb, leaving a gap of, oh, an eighth of an inch or so. "Maybe a . . .," I widened the gap as far as my gnarly fingers would stretch and smiled over at her, "six out of ten."

She frowned, recognizing the significance of a six on her Fraiser scale of pain. "More than likely due to stress and lack of sleep. If you don't mind bunking down in one of the VIP suites for a few hours, I could give you something that would help."

I thought about it, mentally probed the pounding that had been going on non-stop inside my skull for the last 36 hours or so, then nodded. "Yeah. Okay."

She patted my arm. "I'll be right back."

I sat there while she went off somewhere preparing to dope me to the gills and tried to figure out why I do this. It's so obviously an act - albeit one in which Fraiser is a willing participant - that even I don't believe me. Why the hell couldn't I just stroll in like everyone else and demand something for a stupid, stinkin' headache? It should be so simple. But, no, I had to turn it into a 30-minute sitcom with me and Doc in the lead roles - the Jack and Janet show. All we needed was Chrissy and a nosy landlord.

Trying to wrap my mind around the psychology of what I do, without really wanting to know the reason, just made my head ache more. Finally, I stood up and strolled over to the table by the bed, fiddling with the cover on the thin metal chart she'd left laying there.

Chart?

I glanced around at the doorway. As second in command at the SGC, I was privy to information that would make a lot of grown men go running for their mommies. I also knew things about people under my command that sometimes made it difficult to look them in the eye when you were exchanging `good mornings.' Funny thing, though: I never got to peek at my own medical chart. Well, I guess I could if I asked, but I'd never really thought about asking.

Feeling like a teenager who's about to get caught smoking his first, stolen cigarette, I lifted the cover on the chart with my index finger and leaned over, peering inside. Some kind of pre-printed form. Glancing back at the doorway, I opened it further and studied the sheet. Name of patient; height; weight - geez, I could stand to drop a couple; age - hmm, could drop a couple there, too.

I flipped to the second sheet. Another form. A few numbers were scribbled in Doc's tiny, surprisingly neat handwriting, followed by the word `headache.' It was underlined twice. Son-of-a-bitch. I smiled. She hadn't taken any notes after my confession, meaning . . . she'd memorized the script. I started to close the chart before I got caught, then noticed there was a third sheet. I leafed to it.

What the hell?

"Colonel?"

I let the chart snap shut and whirled to face her.

Smiling, Fraiser held up a syringe. "This will help you get some sleep and should take care of that headache. Sir?" She frowned. "Something wrong?"

"No. No." I reached for my belt, knowing she preferred the butt shot. "You know, you're the only doctor I know who doesn't believe in injecting anything above the waist."

"Oh, I have my reasons, Colonel."

I smirked as I dropped my pants. "Yeah, I'll just bet you do. Admit it, Doc," I grimaced as she jabbed the needle home, "underneath that mask of professionalism, you're an ass-man."

She chuckled softly. "Well, you found out me out, sir."

Yes. Yes, I had. But it still didn't explain the neat little rows of smiley faces that she'd drawn in the back of my chart.

* * * * *

I'll give her this, Doc may lean a bit towards the peeping Tom end of the pervert spectrum, but she's almost always mostly right when it comes to doctoring. I stripped down to my boxers, crawled between the sheets of one of the beds in a VIP suite, closed my eyes, and for the next 14 hours remained totally unaware that I'd left on every light in the room.

I awoke with a snort and a start, laying on my stomach with my six shoved up in the air and my knees and back aching like a son-of-a-bitch. Groaning, I rolled onto my side and lifted my head, squinting around the overly-bright room to make sure I was alone. I was. Thank God.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not averse to a little female companionship now and then, but in the last few years, most of the females I'd awakened to were either wearing BDU's and packing P90's or they were exhaling purple gas. And you don't want to tangle with either one, believe me.

Groaning softly, I completed the roll onto my back and blinked up at the pitted, grey ceiling. God. I scrubbed a hand over my face, wiping the sleep from my eyes. I don't know what the hell Doc shot me up with, but I wouldn't mind taking a few along on my next trip to the cabin. I blinked and tried to clear the cobwebs from my head.

Yeah, she was mostly right. The headache had slackened but was still lingering, sort of like a hangover without all the fun of getting there. I needed a pee, a toothbrush, a shower, and a shave . . . in that order. Then breakfast.

That decision made, I continued to lay there feeling old and tired in a way that had nothing to do with being drugged or having a headache or sleeping wrong. It didn't even have anything to do with age. It was mostly about finding out someone you thought you knew was someone you didn't want to know, doing something you didn't want to think about.

"Shit."

That being said, I forced myself up and into the bathroom. It was 0400 and my day had only just begun.

* * * * *

Daniel was educating us, not about the building of the Egyptian pyramids, but about the reasoning behind them in the first place. That is, from the point of view of those who weren`t in the know as far as the Goa'ulds and their nifty little relocation project. I was standing off to one side of my team trying to look like I was actually doing something - like standing watch, when in fact I was just wishing that Carter would get a move on so I could get back to my office and that sweet little bottle of extra-strength Tylenol that I'd stashed in my middle drawer.

It was just after midday, and Hammond had graciously granted Carter's request to return to Planet Hell-Fire and Brimstone to dig up another little bucket of dirt to replace the one the nasty Colonel had stolen. I squinted up at the glaring sun. At least it had stopped raining. I pulled off my cap, ran a hand through my sweaty hair, and tugged my cap back on. So I fidget . . . sue me.

"Carter?"

"Give me another 30 minutes, Colonel. Since we're here, I'd like to get some more samples from the outlying area."

Hiding my true thoughts behind my dark glasses, I grimaced and gave her a reluctant nod before wandering just far enough away that I couldn't make out what Daniel was saying. He was beginning to annoy me. They all were. So for all our sakes, I distanced myself from them before I blew something that wasn't meant to be blown.

I gazed out over a nearly barren landscape. Well, I was always complaining about the galaxy being overgrown with pine trees; apparently, someone upstairs had gotten tired of my whining and granted my wish. There wasn't an evergreen in sight. In fact, the only plant life to be seen was a pathetic cluster of scrawny bushes thrusting defiantly through a heaving pile of drying mud.

The sick looking plants reminded me of a certain diseased grove of trees in the middle of the Nevada desert. I slapped at what looked like a gnat that was buzzing around my face and wondered if Martin was in any kind of danger. Not that I should care.

"O'Neill."

I looked over at Teal'c. He'd snuck up on me so many times in the past five hours that I wasn't even surprised by his sudden presence. He stood next to me, silently gazing out over the mainly dead planet.

I knew he was their point man. My team was trying to feel me out and was using Teal'c to do it. I know a lot of things about my team. For one thing, I can tell you for a fact that Carter and Daniel are aware they can grate on my nerves. Ergo: Teal'c repeatedly sneaking up on me. Now, I'm not sure whether they actually take a vote, but I know Teal'c's frequently nominated to `check on the Colonel.' He's obviously been typecast in the role of Jack's big brother. Maybe it has something to do with him being older than everyone else on Earth. Maybe it's just because he doesn't mind the job. Whatever his reasons or his motives, he's typically able to nudge his way closer to me than anyone else I know.

I glanced over at him, studying his stern features and recognized a hesitancy that I don't often find there. "Everything okay, Teal'c?"

He didn't move; might not have heard my question. "No. I believe it is not."

I took my time cleaning my glasses, then swigged down a sip of lukewarm water. "Anything I can do?"

"I believe it is you who are in need of assistance."

I huffed softly. The guy was getting good. I'd walked right into that one. I glanced over at him, a little irritated that I'd allowed myself to be set up. He cocked an eyebrow and slowly turned his head to look at me. Sara and I had once had a dog that used to give me that exact same look. It had been as annoying then as it was now.

"We can't go there, T," I quietly informed him.

He'd opened his mouth to speak, but closed it at my words. Finally, he graced me with that regal head bob of his. "As you wish. However, I remain available if you have need of me."

Well, I knew what he meant, even though I was glad none of the Marines had heard his offer. "Yeah," I gave him a quick, tight smile, "I know. Thanks."

He made no move to leave, so I did.

* * * * *

Four hours later I popped out on the Earth side of the wormhole with all the pizzaz of a non-carbonated soft drink - no flourish, no winning smile. I ignored the rifle barrels aimed at my chest and concentrated instead on the balding Texan waiting at the base of the ramp. If he knew what was good for him, the next words out of his mouth wouldn't be, `Colonel, we have a problem.'

"Colonel, I take it the mission was a success?"

Thank God. I really hadn't wanted to shoot him.

"Yes, sir. Carter played in the dirt and Daniel . . . well, sir, Daniel talked. A lot."

Hammond smiled and shook his head. "Very good, Colonel. SG1, I think the de-brief on this one can wait. After you get medical clearance, consider yourselves on 48-hour stand-down. Go home; get some rest."

"Yes, sir." Handing off my weapons to the nearest guard, I watched the General leave. He and I were getting too good at lying.

After passing all of Fraiser's tests and hitting the shower room, I headed towards my office. SG1 might be on stand-down, and Hammond and I might pretend that things were peachy, but I was still second in command of the base with a laundry list of other duties that needed to be done. Not to mention the fact that I had `alien technology' to locate, and not a clue where to begin searching.

Between our little visits to Armageddon and the mess with Martin, I'd been gone the last six days, which meant my in-box and e-mails had been piling up. Besides, I had some things to check out, and my office computer was a hell of a lot more secure than the one at home. So for several hours, I hid behind my closed door, quietly weeding through requisition forms and reports, dealing with emails, and surfing a few connections on the net. But my mind wasn't on my work. I kept stewing about Martin and the stupid assholes at the NID who thought we could steal anything we came across. Find an alien, take it home, poke it, prod it, torture it into revealing something we can use, then let it die. Or escape. Shit. As I stood up to head to the mess hall, my cell phone rang.

No caller i.d. I glanced at my watch as I answered it. It was just after midnight.

"This had better be good."

"Now is that any way to greet an old pal?"

I sat down in my chair, smiling despite the creepy feeling sneaking across my neck and shoulders. "Maybourne."

There was a soft laugh that was becoming way too familiar. "Long time no see, Jack."

"What the hell do you want?"

"That hurts. That really hurts."

I didn't respond. Harry couldn't keep his mouth shut if his life depended on it. All I had to do was wait.

"Come on, Jack, you never come out and play with me any more."

"There's a reason for that, Harry."

"And what's that? Too busy being Hammond's errand boy?"

"No. It's because you're an ass."

"And you're a prick. So what's the problem?"

I shivered at the images that conjured up, and Harry laughed even louder as if he'd guessed my reaction, which he probably had.

"What do you want, Maybourne?"

"My, my, aren't we the little bitch tonight?"

"What can I say? It's late. I'm tired."

"What's the matter, working `lost and found' wear you out?"

I couldn't say it surprised me. I'd pretty much known where this conversation was headed the minute I'd heard his slimy voice. "I don't know what the hell you're trying to get at, but get at it quickly or I'm hanging up."

"Ever the diplomat, hey Jack? I call up, trying to do you a favor, and this is the thanks I get?"

"Good-night," I said it softly, nicely, and pulled the phone away from my ear, but we both knew I wouldn't do it. I couldn't afford to. Harry might be a sleaze, but he was a sleaze with connections.

"Okay, Jack, here's the scoop: you're looking for something."

"I'm looking for love in all the wrong places. Tell me something I don't know."

He chuckled. "All right. You're looking to meet someone new. Someone who's not from around these parts. Maybe you want to wine them and dine them a little. Find out a little bit about them. You know . . . who they are, their likes and dislikes. Stuff like that."

"Go on."

"You know what your problem is, Jack? You just don't get out enough. How can you expect to meet new people when you sit in that damn mountain all the time babysitting Jackson and Carter?"

"I'm hanging up now, Maybourne."

"Take it easy. I'm trying to help you out here. Think of me as your personal dating service. You're about to receive a little present. Check it out. Who knows, maybe you'll see something that will appeal to you."

"And what do you want in return?"

"Moi? Why, what do you think I am, Jack?"

"We've already covered that."

"Oh, right. Well then, I guess we've got nothing else to say to each other."

"Harry?"

"Yes, Jack?"

I smiled. "You're still an ass."

"I love you, too."

The line went dead. I sat there with the phone in my hand and debated continuing on to the mess hall but for some reason, I'd suddenly lost my appetite. It never failed to amaze and terrify me that people like Harry Maybourne not only existed, but that they knew so much about things that were not officially happening. Hell, my own team was still in the dark as to why I'd gone to Nellis, and until our little talk this morning, the General had been clueless as to the details of the `technology' that had gone missing.

Someone knocked on my office door.

"Come."

"Colonel O'Neill, sir, this package just came for you."

"Thank you, Airman."

As I studied the box, it dawned on me that in a warped sort of way, Maybourne was one of the most honorable men I knew. And, although you'd never get me to admit it out loud or in writing, he had grown on me over the years. There were times, moments - albeit very brief moments - that I kind of, maybe, sort of, almost liked him. I shivered at the thought.

On that grim note, I opened the box, slightly scared of what little surprise Harry had in store for me. The box contained three DVD's. Taking them with me, I wandered to the lounge and pulled rank on the half dozen airman who were gathered around the television watching a tape of the latest game.

"Sorry, gentlemen, but I'm gonna have to ask you to step out for a little while."

There were a couple of soft groans but they filed out, probably wondering if their CO needed some privacy to watch a little porn. Well, rank does have its privileges. I locked the door behind them, popped in one of the DVD's, and settled back on the stained sofa, fiddling with the remote control.

When the recording came on, I was momentarily at a loss as to what I was seeing. When I figured it out, I was glad I hadn't eaten. The scene playing out before my eyes made me want to puke.

* * * * *

We had gathered at Daniel's. It was a little cramped, all of us squeezed into Daniel's small living room, but to be honest I was glad that they'd chosen to come here instead of to my place. I'd been up for nearly 36 hours; thanks to missing chameleons and gut-wrenching home movies, I hadn't been back to bed since my 14-hour, Fraiser-induced coma. I wasn't exactly in the mood to entertain, especially a group of people that tended to linger long after most guests would have said their good-byes.

I watched and half-listened as Daniel and Teal'c stood near the small stove debating whether chicken juices should or should not run clear when fully cooked. Cassie had been in the middle of mixing up a batch of brownies, but had stopped and was now trying to pick something out of the batter. I wasn't sure what she was digging for, but she was wearing a frown of concentration and was meticulously pinching at the top of the batter with two fingers. Whatever was down there bothered her. It also kept escaping her grasp. Finally, I saw her glance at Fraiser, who was dishing up a bowl of steaming vegetables. Giving the batter a quick, final stir with her spoon, Cassie poured the contaminated mess into the pan. Well, that settled that. Until I witnessed Little Miss Innocent eating one of her own creation, no dessert for Uncle Jack.

"Sir?"

"Hey, Carter." I smiled as she slipped onto the stool next to mine in order to watch the crowded chaos of the kitchen from relative safety.

"So, care to share?"

"Excuse me?" I frowned over at her smiling face, but she merely nodded towards the clueless chefs.

"What shouldn't I eat?"

"Oh." I laughed softly and took a swig of beer. Grimacing, I glanced at the label before answering. "Well, not that I'm saying you're fat, but I'd lay off desserts. At least for today. The entree - well, that remains to be seen. I'd stick with the vegetables. And I know for a fact the baked beans and mashed potatoes are safe. I bought them myself on the way over."

"Ditto for the salad. I thought the General was coming."

I couldn't help it. I sighed and scrubbed a hand over my face.

"Sir, is everything all right? I mean, I know you probably can't tell me, but if you . . . well, you know," she shrugged pitifully.

"Everything's fine, Carter. Don't worry about it."

I knew she didn't believe me, but unlike Daniel, Carter sometimes had an inkling when to lay off . . . at least when it came to her commanding officers. She turned back to the kitchen. "Hey, Cass, what's in the brownies?"

"Huh?" Cassie's head shot up, her eyes wide. "No there isn't."

"What?" Carter laughed softly.

"What?" Cassie shoved the pan into the oven.

"No chocolate chips, no nuts, no coconut?"

"Oh," Cassie laughed in relief, "yeah, there's nuts."

I grabbed my beer and headed for the balcony. Yeah, I was definitely skipping dessert.

Leaning on the railing, I looked out over the city towards the mountains. Like a spectator at a tennis match, I watched the traffic below me. People coming and going. All headed somewhere. Living out their lives, oblivious to what was playing out in the skies above them and even on the Earth around them. Blissfully ignorant. Blessed.

I took another sip of the beer. Shit. Daniel! I fought back the urge to hurl the vile-tasting bottle of brew over the ledge and instead set it down next to me. Daniel refused to buy anything but micro-brew. In his own warped way, he thought he was bucking the system. He wouldn't shop at WalMart, but he was addicted to Starbuck's; he drove a car because it got good mileage, then he never went anywhere. The guy was a walking oxymoron.

I laughed softly. Look who was talking. Me. Mr. Hard-Ass Military Colonel. I was just as bad. Worse maybe. If you looked on my bedside table right now, here's what you'd find: a designer lamp; a book entitled `Chippewa Chief in World War II: The Survival Story of Oliver Rasmussen in Japan'; a photograph of a family that no longer existed; the latest issue of Mad Magazine; a thesaurus; and a bottle of NoDoz.

Inside the drawer: a flashlight, a half-empty box of condoms; a photograph of a family that no longer existed; and a scrap of paper containing these words: `You're not to be so blind with patriotism that you can't face reality. Wrong is wrong, no matter who does it or says it.' The words of Malcolm X in my scrawling handwriting.

That's something most people don't know about me, not even my team: I read and I jot things down. A lot. It springs from a fierce desire to never forget things that might be important.

"Jack?" I flinched at the sound of Daniel's voice. "Dinner's ready."

"Yeah. Coming."

I took one last look out over the city. They weren't out there. I wasn't sure where they were, but I was pretty sure where they weren't.

When I went inside, my friends had already gathered around the table - Daniel at one end, the other end left vacant for me. I stood for a moment and looked at each of them.

Daniel smiled. "What?"

"Well, I don't want to tell you what to do in your own home, but . . . I really think you should say the blessing."

With the exception of Teal'c, there was a chorus of `whats' and several surprised looks.

"Uh, Jack," Daniel glanced worriedly at Carter and then at me, "not that I'm complaining, but why this sudden interest in religion?"

I smiled over at Cassie, who blushed. "Oh, just trust me on this one."

* * * * *

"I don't understand why you don't just get a new one."

I awoke to find Doc watching me.

"Sam, why would I buy a new television? I'm never home."

Fraiser smiled, then looked over at Daniel and Carter, who were sitting on the floor in front of Daniel's decrepit television. Carter was fiddling with the buttons along the bottom of the set. Using his palm, Daniel slapped the side of the appliance twice, hard. It flickered and the picture cleared.

"Ah! Ah!" Daniel held up his hands. "Don't move. Don't anybody move."

I blinked. I couldn't have moved if I'd wanted to. Daniel's idea of decorating ran more along the lines of chintzy mausoleum as opposed to Martha Stewart. I was currently sitting in a bean bag chair that had definitely seen better days. Well, sitting wasn't exactly the word for what I was doing. Basically, I was hermetically sealed in the damned thing; the yellow plastic surface had bonded with the layer of sweat that had formed on my arms and neck. In blob-like fashion, the `chair' had oozed around me and was now pinning my arms to my sides and pushing my head awkwardly forward. My long legs were splayed out in front of me with the toes of my shoes pointing in opposite directions. I tried to move. The chair squeaked but refused to relinquish its hold. The television flickered.

"Dammit!"

"Sam, you shouldn't curse. It's evidence of a shallow mind."

Carter glared over her shoulder at Cassie, who was sitting in the only decent chair in the house, playing with a Gameboy. "Thank you, Cassandra. I had absolutely no idea." Carter glared over at me, why . . . I have no idea, then went back to fiddling with the television, which I'm sure was pissing her off way more than Cassie ever could.

Grimacing, I peeled one arm loose from the chair, sacrificing a layer of skin in the process, and looked at my watch. I'd been asleep for nearly an hour. That and Daniel's choice of beer explained the garbage-disposal taste in my mouth. I swallowed a burp that hinted of brownies and something slightly spicy, something not meant to be eaten. I stared at the top of Cassie's bent head. She'd guilted me into eating one of her `special' treats. I had a feeling if I knew what was good for me, I'd stick close to the latrine for the next 24 hours.

"Uh, somebody wanna . . .," I held up a hand in a plea for help.

Teal'c stepped up from somewhere behind me and offered me a helping hand. I don't know who groaned louder, me or what passed for a chair.

"Geez." I stood there, bent at the waist, seriously wondering if they were out to get me - I mean, in all likelihood I'd been poisoned and I think Daniel's furniture had snapped my spine. So, who was next? I suspected it'd be Carter, especially considering the look she'd just given me.

I had a vague feeling that I was stuck in the middle of a board game gone terribly wrong. I was Colonel Mustard, surrounded by a vengeful team consisting of Ms. Scarlet, Mrs. White, Professor Plum, Mrs. Peacock, and Mr. Green. Obviously, they'd forgotten that the good Colonel wasn't the one who was supposed to be murdered.

"What's the matter, Uncle Jack?"

I smiled over at the prepubescent Black Widow. "Oh, nothing. Just," I slowly straightened, "just stretching."

I ambled slowly towards the kitchen to get a fresh drink. I found a can of diet soda in the back of Daniel's refrigerator; despite being slightly past its expiration date, it had to beat Barfo Beer. As I popped open the can, I spied the plate full of brownies. Taking a sip of the soda, I leaned over and sniffed Cassie's creation. Yeah . . . I don't think brownies are meant to smell tangy.

"Colonel?"

I jumped and turned to face Fraiser, my stiff back twinging at the sudden move. I put a steadying hand on my spine and forced a smile. "Hey."

"Are you all right?"

"Yep."

She grinned. "You sure?"

"Shouldn't I be?"

"It's just . . .," she glanced over her shoulder towards the living room, and moved closer, "I recognize the signs, sir."

"Signs?" Of what? Food poisoning?

"Headache. Lack of sleep."

"Oh." That.

"So, I brought you something." She held up a small bottle.

"Oh, yeah? What is it? A pinch of arsenic?"

She laughed softly. "Excuse me?" I shook my head and reached for the bottle. "They're sleeping pills, Colonel. I'd recommend you take them. You're beginning to look like . . . well, like crap, sir."

"Like crap?"

She smiled an apology. These friends of mine sure know how to make a guy feel good.

"Uh . . . thank you."

We wandered back into the living room and I stood in the corner near the patio door, watching Carter and Daniel. They were two of the smartest people I knew. Between them, they managed to keep the Stargate functioning; but they couldn't conquer a 12-year old television set. I smiled, slipped Fraiser's magic pills into my pocket, and drank my slightly flat soda.

"Okay. Well, obviously, that's as good as it's going to get."

"But, Sam," Cassie had exchanged her haughty tone for a whiny one, "it's got lines running across it."

"Well, it can't be helped. At least, not until your Uncle Daniel cracks open the old checkbook and buys a real television. If he had a new one, it wouldn't do that." Carter smirked up at me, but I was staring at the screen, fixated on the `lines' that were bothering Cassie.

They reminded me of something - something important. Staring, without seeing, I took another sip of my soda and nodded my head in response to something Daniel was saying.

". . . right, Jack?"

"Yeah," I waved a hand towards Daniel, still staring, "whatever."

"Huh? You will?"

I shook myself and finally looked around. They were all gaping at me, with the exception of Teal'c who had sat down in the beanbag chair and was now trying to get out of it. "What?"

"Um," Carter grinned, "you just agreed to buy Daniel a plasma television."

I did? I glanced at Daniel, then back at the old set where a soccer field shimmered and flickered up the screen. "I have to go."

"Go?" Daniel stood up. "I was just kidding."

"No." It had finally dawned on me why the screen looked vaguely familiar. "I . . . I have to get back to the base. Teal'c, you need a ride?"

"Yes. However, Daniel Jackson's chair will not relinquish its hold on me."

* * * * *

Hammond arrived at his office at 0630 the next morning. I was sitting at the conference room table, staring out towards the inactive Stargate, waiting for him.

"My God, Jack, you look like hell. Did you get any sleep last night?"

I looked up at him through reddened eyes, my reactions slowed by lack of sleep. "No, sir."

"I want you off duty, Colonel. As of right now, consider . . . ."

"General, we need to talk."

I said it quietly, but it shut him up mid-sentence. He closed his mouth, exhaled softly and went into his office. I followed him, shutting the door behind me. As I sat down, he made his way to the coffee maker and began brewing a pot of the USAF's finest. I shut my eyes and listened to the comforting sounds of someone going about their daily routine. When I looked up, I found he had sat down behind his desk and was quietly watching me, the smell of coffee building between us.

"I know where they are."

He said nothing for a moment. "Go on."

So I told him. I told him how I'd been contacted by Maybourne, who had sent me recordings of the aliens being interrogated and later experimented on. I didn't tell him that I'd vomited twice while watching the latter sequences and that I'd personally vowed to pistol whip the living shit out of a certain ex-buddy of mine the next time I laid eyes on him.

"So, your friend was telling you the truth?"

I cringed at his choice of words. "Like I told you before, Major Martin wasn't what you'd call forthcoming, but no sir, he didn't lie about the technology in question. I . . . I saw evidence of it on the recordings."

"So how do you know where they are?"

"They didn't respond to questioning. Not even under . . . duress. They never made a sound. Maybe they can't talk, I don't know. But I know this: I've been in their shoes, so to speak. I know under similar circumstances what my own objectives were."

"Maintain honor, escape, and return home."

"Yes, sir."

Hammond rose to pour us both a cup of coffee. Thanking him, I took a sip of the scalding liquid then set the cup on a corner of his desk before continuing.

"So the question becomes, where's home and how do they get there from here? The first question I'm not sure we can answer, but the second . . ."

Hammond stared into his own cup. "Through the Stargate."

I nodded. "I pulled our tapes of the Embarkation Room beginning with the day the aliens disappeared. But how do you find an enemy who can assume the appearance of any one of us?"

"The wrong number of people went through the gate."

I shook my head. "It didn't happen. I checked all trips out against the assigned duty rosters. Everything matched."

"But . . ."

"But Daniel's television set is ancient, sir. The picture has all these little lines running across it." I had to smile at the General's obvious confusion. "Never mind. Suffice to say, at first, it didn't even occur to me. But later, when I saw Daniel's crappy reception, it made me wonder. I mean, the NID has all this state-of-the-art technology, so why was the quality of their recordings so poor? Last night, I re-watched them. The recordings weren't all bad. Only when the aliens weren't . . . well, looking like themselves. When they assumed a different shape, it was like the reception went all wonky. So," I rubbed my eyes then took another sip of my coffee, "I re-watched our tapes."

He sighed heavily. "Where are they, Jack?"

"P4T992."

He had to think a moment, as had I. "That's where we relocated the people from the domed city where you and your team were held."

I smiled, remembering Thera, Carlin and Tor. And Jonah. "Yes, sir."

"SG9 is still there. They left two days ago and aren't due back for four more." I knew that; I'd already checked. He leaned back in his chair with a deep sigh.

"There's something else." When he didn't respond, I continued. "That means three of the men who left weren't ours. So . . ."

"Where are ours?" he finished.

* * * * *

I leaned back on the infirmary bed, staring up at the ceiling. I could hear Fraiser mumbling something to Carter two beds away. I sniffed softly, blinked against the harsh overhead lights and turned onto my side, staring at the print on the curtain pulled around my bed. The pattern resembled tiny blue teardrops, which seemed highly inappropriate if you asked me. Drawing my legs up, I crossed my arms in front of me and didn't even flinch when someone dropped something metal on the concrete floor just outside my little corner of the infirmary. It made a harsh, ringing sound, which was followed by a soft curse.

I blinked sleepily, for once patiently awaiting my turn to be examined before going through the gate. I was in no hurry. Not after my little chat with Hammond. SG1 had been briefed - we were headed for P4T992, ostensibly to check up on SG9. Which was true. SG9 was three hours late for a radio check-in. During that time an incoming wormhole from P4T992 had been established twice, but no radio transmissions had been received. If my suspicions were correct - and it was looking more and more likely that they were - then SG9 had not received our messages either. In any event, something was wrong and Hammond was sending SG1 to find out what that something was.

My nose itched. I scrunched it up, sniffed again and rolled my shoulders, snuggling down onto the hard bed, looking for the comfortable spot that should be there somewhere. I knew my team suspected the General wasn't being entirely forthright. It was unlike Hammond to send in the troops this early without further intel. Not that it mattered whether they believed him. The man said jump . . . yada, yada. But, for that matter, I don't think SG1 minded. Our last two missions had consisted of the cakewalks to Armageddon. My teammates were bored and looking forward to meeting up with our old colleagues from the underground sweatshop. Personally, I was tired and dreaded the trip like an Iraqi prison camp root canal.

I shifted my legs and allowed my left arm to drop onto the thin sheet that covered the bed. We had been sent to the infirmary for the standard pre-mission exam. Our gear was already being gathered. As soon as we cleared medical and Hammond gave the final go-ahead, we'd be off to check up on SG9. Officially, assuming everything was okay, Hammond had given our team leave to stay a few days in order to reacquaint ourselves with our old friends. Unofficially, he was giving us a reason to not hurry back - not that either the General or I needed to give reasons.

I coughed softly and closed my eyes, shutting out the sight of the teardrops.

"Colonel?" The voice was soft and definitely female.

I grunted.

"Sir, I'm sorry to wake you."

Wake me? My eyes shot open and I rolled onto my back with a soft gasp.

"It's okay, Colonel."

I looked over at Fraiser, who was standing a safe distance from the side of the bed. "Doc?"

She smiled and stepped closer. I glanced back up; the overhead lights had been dimmed. "You fell asleep. I . . . I didn't want to wake you, but it's time to go."

I frowned and looked back at her. "Go?" I had to think for a minute, running a hand over my gritty eyes. "What time is it?"

She avoided the question. "Your team is headed for the gate room now, sir. The General has given orders for SG1 to head out."

Groaning, I sat up. "How long have I been here?"

"Not long enough." At my frown, she acquiesced. "You've been asleep for a little over two hours, Colonel."

I swung my legs over the side of the bed, feeling drugged and slightly wobbly. She was right. It wasn't long enough. Feeling a tug on the inside of my elbow, I glanced down to find a small band-aid covering a wad of cotton. I looked up at her. "I certainly hope my virtue has not been compromised by the resident ass-man."

She laughed softly. "I have to say, I wish your exams always went that smoothly. Maybe you could make a habit of sleeping through all of them."

"Maybe I will."

I hopped off the bed and walked, albeit a tad drunkenly, out of the infirmary and down to the gate room. My team had already gathered and were donning their packs and weapons. I hefted my pack and in place of the usual P90, strapped on my own personal M25. The weight was eerily familiar, despite the fact that it was over four pounds heavier than the submachine gun we typically carried.

As the chevrons began turning on the Stargate, I wandered over to join my team.

"Hey, Jack, nice nap?" I made a face at Daniel, who laughed softly then looked at my rifle. "New gun?"

Carter's head jerked up and she studied my weapon, frowning as if trying to identify it.

I smiled tightly. "Well, well, Dr. Jackson, I'm surprised you noticed. Very good." I slipped on my sunglasses. "We'll make a soldier out of you yet."

"God, I hope not," Daniel grumbled.

We watched as the MALP disappeared through the wormhole. Five minutes later, even Teal'c was beginning to squirm with impatience. I looked back up at the window of the control room where the General was leaning over the technician's shoulder. They were both intent on the computer screen in front of them.

"Problem, General?"

Hammond said something to the technician before leaning into the mike, his face unreadable. "We're still unable to send and receive transmissions via the MALP."

"Do you want me to take another look at it, sir?" Carter was already getting ready to hand off her P90, when I stopped her with a touch on her arm and a shake of the head.

I had the unnerving feeling that we weren't going to need Carter's assistance with this particular problem. She gave me a hurt look. It wasn't often that we turned down an offer of help from the resident physicist and if you ask me, she was a bit sensitive about it when we did.

"That won't be necessary, Major." Hammond stared at me, conveying his meaning beyond the words. "SG-1, you have a go. Proceed with caution."

"Yes, sir."

"Sir. . .," Carter shut her gaping mouth, silencing what had promised to be a protest.

"General," Daniel threw a wide-eyed glance at me, before looking up at our CO, "is that wise?"

You know, I can't explain it. It's kind of like that family thing. You know, the one where I can bad mouth my sister but you'd sure as hell better watch what you say about her. Anyway, mad as I was at the General, it totally pissed me off that my team was questioning his command. "Daniel."

He swung around to me. "Jack, don't you think. . ."

"Not now." I double-checked my weapon, refusing to look at him. I didn't need to see his face or hear his words to know what he was thinking. He was wondering why the hell Hammond would send us in blind. It seemed ludicrous. Hell, it was ludicrous. It was also unavoidable. Hammond and I both knew there was no way Carter could `fix' the transmission problem. Only I held the remedy to this one; unfortunately, there was nothing I could do about it from this side of the gate.

Besides, I really didn't think we were in any immediate danger. If the aliens were still on P4T992 - and considering the transmission problems my guess was that they were - then it was much more likely that they were concerned with maintaining their ruse than they were with shooting whoever came through the gate. However, just in case, I was taking no chances.

"Teal'c, you're with me. Carter, Daniel, give us a twenty-count, then follow us in."

"Colonel?"

I sighed loudly. "Yes, Major?"

I didn't miss the fact that she glanced up towards Hammond, obviously looking for support. When none came, she gave a sigh of her own. "Nothing, sir."

I snapped a quick salute at Hammond, made sure Teal'c was with me, and stormed through the gate.

* * * * *

SG9 and a group of slightly familiar faces awaited us. Major Golden, who had replaced the late Major Benton, and his five team members stood at the front of a group of a dozen or so `natives.' I didn't know Golden well, but the man looked worried.

"Colonel O'Neill, welcome to P4T992. I'm glad to see you, sir."

I studied each of the faces staring back at me, searching for anything out of the ordinary or . . . alien. But, they all looked human so far as I could tell. "You missed your curfew, Major. Care to explain?"

"Yes, sir. We've been trying to contact the SGC for nearly six hours, Colonel, but there's a problem with our equipment. The DHD is working and we're able to establish a wormhole, but we can't communicate via the MALP or our handhelds. I was just getting ready to send one of my men through when you arrived."

Behind me, I heard the sounds of Carter and Daniel arriving and the subsequent snap of the wormhole disengaging.

Golden nodded towards Carter before continuing. "As I was saying, sir, we were unable to make contact. Lt. Hughes has been working on the MALP to see if he could ID the problem."

"Did you receive any transmissions at all?" Carter had already wandered over to the small four-wheeled vehicle and was examining it, while Daniel was approaching some of our former colleagues from the domed city.

"No. Nothing."

"Carter, give Hughes a hand. See if you can figure out the problem. Major Golden, you're with me." Keeping my hand on my M25, I led Golden away from the small cluster of recently constructed buildings that made up the new community. I stopped approximately 50 feet away from the group gathered around the gate and the DHD. I leaned back against a large boulder, making sure to keep Golden and the others in full view.

"So, Major, status report."

"Well, sir, we've spent the last two days as planned. Lieutenants Carlson and Pierce have been working with the local . . . well, I guess you'd call her a doctor, sir. At least, the closest thing they have to one. Anyway, we've been working to get their medical facility set up. And Sergeants Fields and Lewis, and Lieutenant Hughes have been working on setting up a power source. They're going to train some of the inhabitants on how to maintain it - if they ever get it functioning."

"Trouble with that as well, I take it."

"Yes, sir. A bit. As I said, I was just getting ready to send someone back to the base when the Stargate activated."

"Thank God it did, Major."

"Sir?"

"Your GDO?"

"Oh my God." Golden's face blanched at the implication.

Hiding behind my dark glasses, I turned my head towards our people gathered around the MALP, while surreptitiously watching Golden, looking for . . . I wasn't sure what. Something. "So, you've had no other problems with the mission?"

Still pale, he frowned slightly. "Just the equipment problems, sir."

I nodded and smiled tightly, still watching the activity around the gate. "Everyone's been acting . . . normal?"

"You mean the inhabitants here, sir?" When I didn't respond, he tensed. "My men? Colonel, I'd like to know what's . . ."

"Just answer the question, Major."

I heard a soft intake of breath as he swallowed whatever he'd been planning on saying. "My men have performed their mission admirably, sir. If there's reason to think otherwise, I have a right to know."

I turned to look at him, studied the righteous indignation on his face. "Calm down, Golden. No one's accusing anyone of anything. I'm just . . . I'm trying to cover all the bases here. You've been incommunicado for two days. For all I know, you and your men have been snaked."

He seemed surprised by the suggestion and by my candor. "I can assure you, none of us are Goa'ulds."

"Glad to hear it. Nevertheless, General West was concerned. Asked us to check up on you; give you a hand here." Okay, so it wasn't my best material, but it had dawned on me during my hours of studying the recordings of the aliens' interrogation that while they might be able to mimic our outward appearance, that didn't necessarily mean they knew what we knew.

"General West, sir?" Golden shook his head. "I'm sorry, Colonel, but who the hell is General West?"

Okay, it didn't totally rule out Golden as one of the galaxy's most talented impersonators, but it certainly helped. I stood up, smiling. "Sorry. I meant Hammond. Anyway, it seems the General has decided that we should stick around for a while, make sure these people get all the help we can give them. So, what do you say you show me around?"

* * * * *

There's something humbling about knowing that your enemy is walking around posing as one of your friends. It's humbling, tiring, and more than a little infuriating. If I hadn't felt so bad about what my people had put these aliens through, maybe I could have drummed up a little hate for them. Officially, these aliens were my enemies; unofficially, I had nothing against them but my orders. The most damning thing I could manage was indifference - to their plight and to the mission at hand - and being danced between pity and guilt was exhausting me.

"O'Neill."

Even though he'd startled me, I didn't flinch. I was too tired to waste the effort. I continued to hold the viewing scope to my eye and watched the activity in the village below. I heard Teal'c settle himself on the ground next to me. I scanned to the left and spied Fields and Lewis coming out of the small building which housed a gas-powered generator that they'd installed.

Lowering the scope and rubbing one hand over my gritty eyes, I picked up Daniel's video camera and focused it on the two men. As usual, a quick peek through the viewfinder revealed a grainy, slightly out of focus view of them crossing the small compound and entering another building. As they disappeared, I swung the camera across the expanse of the small village. Everything was grainy and out of focus. I sighed heavily and lowered the camera.

When I looked over at the man beside me, he was watching me closely. "What?"

He continued to study my face and I finally turned away, uncomfortable under his scrutiny.

"Why do you not sleep, O'Neill?"

"I'm fine."

There was a slight hesitation in his voice when he continued. "You are not."

I tucked the video camera into my pack before glancing over at him. He was still staring.

"We have been here two days. I am aware of the number of hours you have slept since our arrival."

"Is that right?" I knew he was just concerned but it didn't matter, he was still pissing me off. It was none of his business.

"Approximately four and one-half."

"It was a rhetorical question, Teal'c," I snapped.

"I am aware."

I zipped the camera inside the middle pocket of the pack and opened another flap, digging for something . . . I wasn't sure what.

"I have angered you."

"No." But he had. We both knew it. "Look. . . ." I fumbled with the pack, then shoved it aside. Great. Now my head was pounding worse than ever. "I . . . I appreciate the concern. Really. It's just, there's nothing to worry about. It's . . . I can't talk about it."

He tilted his head and cocked an eyebrow. I watched as something resembling comprehension appeared to dawn on him. "Is there nothing I can do to assist you?"

God, if only there was. But even if my orders allowed me to reveal anything to Teal'c, my friendship with him prevented me from asking him to do this for me. I had never asked anyone under my command to do something I wouldn't do myself. I wasn't about to start now. "Yes, there is. Watch for anything unusual. Anything at all. If you even think you sense something wrong, tell me."

He nodded without hesitation. "I will do so."

"And keep an eye on Carter and Daniel. Make sure neither one of them is ever alone with any of the others. Particularly with any members of SG9."

At that, Teal'c frowned.

I rubbed a hand across my forehead, trying to press away the migraine that had been slowly building since I'd crawled out of bed in the wee hours of the night. I thought of my orders and my stomach heaved slightly in response. Swallowing bile, I forced myself to look him in the eyes.

"Things aren't always what they seem to be, T. Just . . . please remember that."

He bowed his head somewhat formally. "You have my word."

My ears ringing from the pain swelling through my skull, I forced a tight smile. Then, gathering up my pack and my M25, I made my way back to the village.

* * * * *

After a quick lunch, I gathered up a small butt pack, my M25 and Daniel's camera. Leaving Carter in charge, but knowing Teal'c would keep a surreptitious eye on my team, I headed out of the village.

I was almost certain that the presence of the aliens in stealth mode - for lack of a better term - was responsible not only for the malfunctioning of the MALP, but also the video camera and the handheld radios. Over the past day and a half, I'd come to the realization that with a little planning, I could use this against them. I seriously doubted that the aliens were going to reveal themselves in the presence of witnesses. Therefore, my one chance at identifying them was going to be through the effects they were having on our equipment. Unfortunately, their mere presence in the general vicinity seemed to be disrupting all transmissions throughout the village. In order to separate the aliens from the humans, I needed to know the range of the aliens' effects. So, armed with Daniel's video camera and my radio, I walked.

And I walked.

The camera held loosely in one hand, I stumbled across the rocky landscape, one eye on the horizon and the other on the small view screen of the camera. It was hot and the sun sent shimmering heat waves bouncing up off the dry soil. I pulled my cap lower over my sunglasses, glanced down at the wavy patterns on the small screen and back out at the similar but less pronounced heat distortions on a much grander scale. I attempted, without success, to radio Carter.

And I walked.

Approximately two klicks from the village, about halfway down the face of a short but steep bluff, I was watching the view screen and stumbled over a rock no bigger than my fist. My concern for the camera overriding all my instincts, I went down hard. The wind was knocked out of my lungs at the initial impact, and I continued to tumble and slide approximately 15 feet before rolling to a stop in a shower of gravel and dust.

Huddled protectively over the camera, I lay curled up in a fetal position, panting and cursing my own stupidity. Out here in the middle of a strange planet, no radio, no way home . . . getting injured was definitely not in my best interests. I'm not sure how long I lay there, but it was long enough to check the camera with shaking hands. It seemed to be working . . . in any event, the distorted picture was no worse than it had been before my abrupt descent. I set it aside and tried to calmly assess my condition.

Fortunately, there didn't seem to be any major damage, mainly scrapes and bruises. Both elbows were scraped raw, but the worst was a gash on my right arm - a deep, gravel-filled trough that ran from my elbow all the way down to my wrist. It was bleeding heavily. Despite the fact that my pants weren't bloodied or torn, my right leg burned and throbbed from my knee to my ankle.

I pulled out my canteen, took a quick swig and proceeded to flush out the wound on my arm. Here's a quick bit of trivia: seems yelling and cursing at the top of your lungs really doesn't lessen the pain factor. In fact, it accomplished nothing more than making me thirsty and rooting out an odd-looking creature that resembled a skinny chipmunk with an extra set of legs. The little guy didn't even glance