Title: The Jack Gets Naked And Whumped Fic (for want of anything better! <LOL> Thanks for the title, Lynette!)

Author: Karen (Kent)

Email: a_non_entity@hotmail.com

Status: Complete

Category: Jack whumping and angst (like I ever write anything else!!)

Pairings: Nope

Spoilers: Nope

Season: Any with Daniel

Sequel/Series Info: None

Content Level: 13+

Content Warnings: Don’t think so. Apart from the nakedness which might, I suppose, induce bouts of swooning!

Summary: See title

Disclaimer: I don’t own them, nor do you. I made no money from this, and am not rich enough to sue.

File Size (kb):

Archive: Jackfic, others please ask first

Author’s Note:

 

Written for the First Annual Jackfic-a-thon in response to a challenge set by a person as yet unknown! I hope whoever it is is happy with what I did with her little plot bunny.

 

Dedicated to Arnise and Hoo, in grateful thanks for all their hard work in making the wonderful Jackfic website what it is. Because, without you both, I’d have nowhere to put my stories once they’re finished as I don’t know one end of setting up/organising/running a web site from the other.

 

Grateful thanks go to Patti for betaing.

 

And to Lynette, Taskmaster General, who betaed and betaed and betaed, and who made sure there *would be* an Infirmary scene of some description at the end, come hell or high water (mainly by writing most of it herself), and who ensured the BURN got mentioned at every possible opportunity!! And without whom this fic would be half the fic it is, and would never have hit the deadline. Thank you.

 

Any mistakes that remain are entirely mine.

 

And, lastly, by complete coincidence I’ve been reading ‘Captain Blood’ by Rafael Sabatini, which tied in with huge elements of the bunny I was sent. And which had a big influence in the way the plot ended up going. But I only realised that after it had happened.

 

 

Assignment:

Time frame: Seasons one through five and seven. (Daniel must be there and Jack has to be a Colonel.)
Pairings: None.
Jack gets left behind/captured for some reason and ends up being made a slave to either a goa'uld or the local powerful person.
Notes: Basically, I want some Jack whumping and them making Jack do as he's told.  I'd also like a scene where Jack is sold at the local slave market (prefereably starkers, but if you can't write that to be shown on jackfic then at least in his boxers!) I'd also like to see what happens when he gets home and how his team helps him cope.

 

 

 

 

 

There were times when Colonel Jack O’Neill kinda questioned his career choices. Kinda wondered about ‘The road not travelled’ or whatever it was the poet had been going on about. Kinda wondered if he’d have been better off being a pizza delivery man. Or a programme seller for the Minnesota Wild ice hockey team.

 

Or something.

 

Anything, except being a colonel in the US Air Force.

 

He particularly had those questions when he woke up with a head that told him, clearly and in no uncertain terms, that he’d been knocked unconscious.

 

Again.

 

And when he could feel heavy shackles around his ankles.

 

Like now.

 

And when he felt like absolute crap.

 

Yep. Definitely had that, too.

 

Three strikes.

 

Crap.

 

He just had to have that little talk with his local employment office.

 

There’d just got be an easier way to earn a living.

 

He tried opening his eyes, and wished he hadn’t. So he shut them again.

 

The piercing pain that speared right through to the centre of his brain, like a well-placed knife blade being used as an ice-cream scooper without anaesthetic, was enough to make him want to vomit.

 

After a while, the hot sensation of approaching nausea receded somewhat. And the knife had been replaced by a power drill which was working overtime at puncturing a hole through his eyeballs from the inside out.   

 

Raising a hand to his forehead, he tried to let thoughts leak into his mind without them leaking out his ears.

 

Not easy.

 

Crap, his head hurt.

 

He gently traced the swelling that ran down beside his right eye and on towards his mouth.

 

At least he couldn’t find any suggestion of broken cheekbone.

 

No thanks to Mr. Swinging Cudgel, and his band of happy campers.

 

Easing his hands down he patted his chest feebly. No combat vest.

 

Terrific.

 

No radio.

 

No GDO.

 

Spectacular.

 

With infinite care he turned his head millimetre by millimetre and forced his rebellious eyes open, one at a time.

 

The power drill went into overdrive and then, he was certain, had a personality transplant; becoming a chain saw that Jack was convinced was being used to remove the top portion of his head, thus leaving his brain exposed to all and sundry.

 

He had really been on the receiving end of one almighty wallop.

 

As his blurred vision began to clear, in an uncertain and rather *unclear* kind of fashion, he saw people huddled together. Frightened people. Chained by the ankles, as he was. Dressed in simple Medieval-style peasant-like outfits. Except for . . . one man. Who was attired in desert BDUs. And chains.

 

And who wasn’t Daniel Jackson.

 

Or Teal’c.

 

Jack shut his eyes again.

 

And tried to remember.

 

He was almost certain the chain saw had removed the area of his brain that allowed powers of memory to function properly, because he was damned if he could remember anything.

 

Indeed, the only thing he could recognise of any importance at the moment was the bone-splitting pain in his head.

 

Skull fracture?

 

After long consideration, he decided he didn’t think so.

 

Okay . . . come on, O’Neill. Start functioning.

 

Slow, deep breaths helped steady him.

 

And the chain saw finished its job, and handed over to its mini-cousin the power drill once more.

 

Jack didn’t make the mistake of opening his eyes again.

 

He simply lay thinking; and, finally, remembering.

 

A village.

 

Villagers.

 

A treaty.

 

A seemingly innocent conversation.

 

‘It’s a straightforward mission, Colonel.’

 

Oiy.

 

Gotcha on that one, General.

 

‘I’m sure you’ll be back in no time.’

 

Score two for the negatives.

 

‘Colonel Haynes was going to handle things, but he’s fallen ill, so, I thought you could lead SG-7 in his place.’ Hammond had smiled, ingratiatingly.

 

‘How ‘bout delaying the treaty, sir? A coupla days. What’s the difference? Just until Paul feels better . . .’

 

He really didn’t want to go off world with another team. He had his own team. And a nicely established routine: he gave the orders; Carter confuzzled him with science; Teal’c looked scary; and Daniel just ignored any orders he was given. Yep. Routine. Ya had ta love it! 

 

And call him grouchy, but . . . he *really* didn’t want to go off world with another team and have to sort out another routine.

 

‘It’ll be useful experience for them, Jack. Getting to work with you. And you can run an assessment on them for me. They’ve been on a couple of missions and Haynes says they’re all settling in fine. But . . .’

 

‘Sounds like Paul’s assessed them pretty well already, sir.’ Just how much more reluctant did he have to be before the General would get the hint?

 

‘I’d value your opinion, Jack.’ Yeah, right. ‘And, the chief was very particular. He wanted the signing to happen as quickly as possible.’

 

Hammond hadn’t given ground. Reluctant 2IC or not.

 

So Jack got an extra trip through the Gate with Captain Hill, and Lieutenants Brooks and Cady.

 

And, with hindsight, you betcha sweet backside the chief had wanted to sign the treaty with some haste. He must have known an attack was a possibility, and had hoped the SGC would afford them some protection.

 

Well, boys and girls, we might have: *if* *we’d* *known* *about* *the* *possibility* *of* *said* *attack*!

 

A little heads up wouldn’t have gone amiss.

 

Then a certain Air Force Colonel might not have been caught with his pants around his ankles, figuratively speaking.

 

Actually, he’d been watching Lieutenant Ian Cady, SG-7’s recently recruited Daniel Jackson clone, going about his business and completing the treaty.

 

When everything simply went nuts. In a big way.

 

He remembered a sudden mad screaming that tore the air in two.

 

And Captain Nick Hill shouting, ‘Colonel!’ in a voice had just carried over the sudden panic of the villagers and the thunder of invading horse hooves.

 

Jack had signaled for the captain to sweep left as he swept right.

 

Jack’s progress was hampered by terrorised villagers who were rushing for any kind of cover in a disordered scramble.

 

‘Cady!’ Jack yelled. ‘Help the Chief!’

 

He’d had no chance to see if his order was being obeyed as he then turned his attention to the raiders. Struggling to aim his P-90 without catching innocent bystanders in the cross-fire he shoulder-barged through the surge of desperate humanity: men, old and young, dragging women with them; women, clutching robes about them, and dragging children after them; children crying, bewildered and frightened.

 

If he had had any doubts about the intentions of the horsemen they were dispelled with a mercilessly scything blow aimed at an old woman who had staggered to her knees, pushed aside by stronger people in the melee. She had no chance to evade the blade that killed her.

 

Jack heard himself shout, ‘Bastard!’ as his first burst of firepower lifted the woman’s killer from the seat of his saddle and cast him into the dust, yards from his defenceless victim.

 

Above the screaming and shouting he heard a burst of gunfire that had to be Captain Hill, his second-in-command on this mission.

 

Then O’Neill turned his attention back to the wild rampage of horsemen sweeping through the village.

 

He fired again.

 

A short burst.

 

As figures flickered through his eyesight.

 

He recognised Shauna carrying her infant son. He and she had talked a little over the last few days. Also, Malik and his wife, Desiree, who had taken to Captain Hill because he looked like their son, dead these past few years. And the kids, Shofal, Hendrik and Foy, to whom Jack had started teaching the basics of baseball.

 

In micro-seconds their faces registered. Along with targets to fire upon.

 

That was what a soldier did. Distinguished,  in less than a heartbeat, the innocent from the guilty. The friendly from the foe. And fired in response to that instantaneous message.

 

The horsemen were fast. They were efficient.

 

And there were too many of them. They might have carried only swords and muskets but they were co-ordinated and ruthless. They had obviously amassed in the woodland beyond the village. And Jack feared the worst for young Lieutenant Brooks. It had been his job to keep a look out. But he hadn’t radioed in a warning. Hadn’t, so far as Jack had heard, even fired a shot in anger.

 

Which suggested to Jack that Brooks had been caught napping. That the marauders had had an advance scouting party. And that they had been more alert than the unfortunate Lieutenant.

 

Jack felt the bile rise in his throat. His usually infallible radar for trouble had let him down. And he had let Brooks down. He had figured it was an easy assignment for the younger man. Guard duty amongst the trees. On a quiet planet. With no apparent threat.

 

And yet, you should always . . . *always* . . . assume a threat.

 

Three days of making nice with the natives, while he left Cady to the mind-numbing treaty negotiations, had apparently lulled him into a false sense of security. 

 

For which there was no excuse.

 

Brooks was probably dead.

 

Because his CO had slipped up.

 

Now Jack could only hope that his worst fears weren’t justified.

 

But, if Brooks had been captured he’d be here with the rest of the bedraggled remnants of the village. And Jack was as sure as he could be, from his brief survey, that Brooks wasn’t present.

 

Crap. Crap. Crap.

 

It was as if regret and self-guilt were trapped like a sour taste in his throat, and the feeling of responsibility swelled like nausea inside him. Christ. He should’ve taken the recon. himself. Should’ve checked in with Brooks more often. Should’ve done . . . a million other things.

 

Like you could second guess everything in the universe.

 

Go figure.

 

At least he could hope that Brooks might have survived.

 

With Captain Hill there was no such possibility. Like Jack he had responded to the attack. Unlike O’Neill, who had eventually been knocked off his feet and into unconsciousness by a rider brandishing a hefty cudgel, Hill had been ridden down. Jack had seen him try to evade the pounding hooves of one of the lead stallions; seen him dodge that first horse, only to step into the path of another. Jack had seen him go down, under the merciless, steel-bottomed pistons. He’d had no chance. His head had split like a pumpkin beneath a baseball bat, and his body was caught like a rag doll, kicked with careless abandon between one set of feet and another, until it was cast aside and left twisted in a wholly unnatural manner against a wall.

 

Jack remembered screaming, ‘Hiiiiiiiiiiilllllllllllllllllll!’

 

Remembered his heart stopping. Then plunging into his boots.

 

And he’d been distracted. Momentarily. But that was all it took. He was still firing. Automatically. But when he looked up . . . the cudgel was already on its way down.

 

Now, lying with the appalling scene replaying again and again against the exclusive and unforgiving screen that was the underside of his eyelids, Jack struggled to come to terms with what had happened.

 

And tried not to wonder whether it would have been the same of he’d had his usual team with him.

 

Should he be guiltily thankful they hadn’t been there?

 

Would he have put Teal’c out in the woodland?

 

Would it have been Carter?

 

Would either of them have been caught out like Brooks?

 

Would he have seen Carter’s brains spray the dust like Hill’s?

 

Or Teal’c’s?

 

Would it be Daniel captured with him? Or would Jackson have sensed something might be about to happen?

 

Why, why, why hadn’t *he*, *O’Neill*, sensed something? Without his own team he should have been even more alert.

 

Was he losing his edge?

 

Had he already *lost* it?

 

Time passed with remorse-filled slowness as Jack struggled through feelings of miserable guilt that clung to his mind like an insidious disease. Which could cripple him unless he got a grip of himself.

 

Slowly, he recovered to the point where he couldn’t ignore any further the fact that there was a surviving member of SG-7 still there with him. And a village of people.

 

With reluctant effort he cracked open an eye. He was lying in one of the big barns that stood at one end of the village. Hanoki, the chief, had been proud of the buildings when he had shown SG-7, and it’s less than enthusiastic leader, around the village. Cady had had Daniel Jackson style orgasms concerning their structure, and even Hill and Brooks had seemed to be swept up in the while thing.

 

‘It’s a freakin;’ *barn*, Cady, for Christsakes.’

 

‘Well, yes, sir. That’s true. But the overall construction has several influences which taken together, in its entirety, make the whole thing . . .’

 

‘*Cady*! It’s a *barn*!’

 

He had seen Brooks and Hill attempt to hide smirks by chewing vigorously on the inside of their mouths. Cady, in a true Jacksonesque style just wasn’t seeing the lack of enthusiasm in his CO’s demeanour.

 

Brooks . . .

 

Hill . . .

 

O’Neill gritted his teeth. They had been his responsibility.

 

No more smirking.

 

And no more going home.

 

For either of them.

 

Taking a deep breath, Jack began to survey the group of people gathered dejectedly around him.

 

He instantly recognised Shauna and her son. And she was looking in his direction. Her deep hazel eyes clouded with fear. Her son was nearly two and she held him tightly to her side. Others he also recognised from his stay in the village.

 

Crap. Crap. Crap.

 

How had he missed undertones that this might happen?

 

‘Sir?’ Cady’s voice was quiet.

 

Jack carefully turned his head to look at the Lieutenant. ‘You all right, son?’

 

‘Uh, yes, sir.’

 

‘Injured?’

 

‘Uh, no, sir.’

 

‘Good. Wanna tell me what this is all about?’

 

Cady coughed.

 

‘Umm, Hanoki has told me that he was not expecting this for some weeks.’

 

Jack said nothing. Berating Hanoki wasn’t going to bring Brooks and Hill back. Or relieve O’Neill’s guilt. And, anyway, Hanoki was a leader. He was almost certainly feeling as devastated as Jack was. His people, too, were gathered here as prisoners.

 

So, what’s going on?’ he asked again, trying to keep his voice even. Getting irritated with Cady wasn’t going to aid things either.

 

‘So far as I can tell, sir, it’s a dispute.’

 

‘About?’

 

‘Land.’

 

‘Don’t tell me . . . Hanoki lost?’

 

‘So it would seem, yes, sir.’

 

‘And so?’

 

‘The people in his village are to be sold as slaves.’

 

‘Oiy.’

 

‘Sir?’

 

‘This rounding up of slaves thing is getting so old, don’tcha know?’

 

‘Uh, yes, sir. It’s a very old custom. In many parts of our world it’s . . . ‘

 

‘Cady?’

 

‘Yes, sir?’

 

‘Please . . . spare me the history lesson.’

 

‘Oh. Right. Yes, sir.’

 

There was a pause.

 

‘Lieutenant?’

 

‘Sir?’

 

He could barely bring himself to ask. ‘Have you seen Lieutenant Brooks?’

 

The long silence gave him his answer before Cady’s eventual, quiet, ‘No, sir.’

 

Jack let go a breath he hadn’t even realised he was holding as hope left him with the air he expelled, dissipating and dissolving like crumbling rock under the scrabbling fingers of a climber who knows he’s about to fall.

 

O’Neill let his eyes close.

 

Brooks was almost certainly dead.

 

Although, where there was no body, there was still a chance. He could cling on to the last remaining grain of hope that Brooks had avoided capture, or worse, and was, right then, planning their rescue.

 

Unlike . . .

 

‘Captain Hill, sir?’ Cady’s tone was, at best, tentative, as if he already knew the news was bad. ‘He was with you.’

 

‘He’s dead, son.’ Jack kept his voice as even as he could.

 

Cady’s silence spoke for them both.

 

And the Colonel knew, that, like him, Cady was thinking of a ready smile. A slow Southern drawl. And a wife who did not yet know she was a widow.

 

 

*********

 

 

After a night spent in the barn, the villagers, Cady and O’Neill were all ordered to their feet and marshalled outside. They were a despondent group. There were women with frightened children clutching at their skirts. There were men with broken pride in hopeless eyes. And watching, were those not chosen: the old and the sick. Who wailed and cried as if their limbs were being amputated without anaesthetic. They tried to touch those they were about to be parted from, but the riders skillfully used their horses to shoulder them away, corralling the prisoners together.

 

Then they were addressed by a man who sat tall in the saddle and who wore the cold uncaring face of a man inured to the suffering of others. He wore breeches tucked into riding boots that reached his knees, and a coat that looked to Jack like something on the run from the American War of Independence: with its high, turned back cuffs, and skirts that reached almost down to the rider’s knees. To complete the outfit, a wide leather belt circled the man’s waist like a sash, and from the saddle a wooden handled pistol and sword were suspended in holsters.

 

He circled his steed, controlling the large black stallion with ease, as he called for silence.

 

‘All of you are now subject to the rules of His Gloriousness King James the Second. I hereby claim this land in his name for the further glory of His Highness and his subjects. Any dissent will be considered as mutinous and dealt with most severely, even unto death.’

 

King James?

 

Jack tried to sneak a look at Cady. This didn’t sound very Goa’uldish. It was the Brits who had people like kings and queens. And, he seemed to remember, the Dutch. And Norwegians. And . . . well, Europe in general had adopted the idea at various stages over the centuries.

 

And what sort of phrase was “even unto death” when it was at home?

 

Cady carefully raised his shoulders and then lowered them in a ‘beats me’ kind of way, and waggled his eyebrows in a manner that was frankly confusing. He could be saying ‘what do we do?’ Or not. Jeez. Jack had a sudden longing for Teal’c and a familiar pair of eyebrows he could interpret instantaneously.

 

Or Daniel with his inexhaustible supply of historical knowledge.

 

Which thought only left him feeling guilty for not appreciating Cady’s talents.

 

And then wondering whether all this would have happened if Daniel had been there instead of Cady.

 

Which again left him feeling guilty.

 

At which point he gave up, because his head hurt with the confusion. And he found he’d missed the end of the speech by King James’ disciple.

 

Herded by the riders, the prisoners were forced to turn away from the village and to begin walking in a straggled formation of despair. The villagers kept turning for a last anguished look at the home they were being forced to depart, and those they were being made to leave behind; many of whom followed in a procession of distress, until their old or infirm legs could carry them no longer. And one by one they slipped to the ground crying out their lament of grief and farewell.

 

Using cudgels and whips the riders forced the train of human goods onwards, leaving their home and relatives behind.

 

Jack helped those near him who stumbled with tears in their eyes, or fell as they twisted in search of a last memory of home. Cady did the same.

 

And O’Neill knew they had drawn the attention of the representative of King James. Which wasn’t hard, as they stuck out like the proverbial sore thumb: Hanoki and his tribe were dressed in simple clothing, sack-like dresses and simply-composed pants and shirts.

 

Jack and Cady still wore SGC issue desert combat pants with accompanying sand-coloured tee-shirt, jacket and boots. And was clearly more sophisticated than that of the natives. In addition, their skin colour was much lighter than that of the villagers. And so, it was impossible to blend in. They were quite obviously . . . well, different.

 

All the group were hampered by the chains around their ankles, and initially stumbled often. But unsympathetic encouragement with blows and whippings meant that quickly everyone learned to adopt a stilted and shortened gait.

 

So, the newly acquired collective property of King James wended its considerably less than merry way away from the village. Away from the Stargate. And towards an uncertain future.

 

 

************

 

 

Part 2

 

 

 

They had walked for a couple of hours before they were allowed to stop and sit in the shelter of a group of trees that offered a sad excuse for shade; their branches being adorned with only the bare scraps of anything resembling leaves. There were bushes that bore a strong allegiance to tumbleweed. And a wide stretch of river. A very wide stretch of river.

 

Mister Representative of King James graciously allowed the prisoners to the water’s edge in groups, guarded by others of his horsemen.

 

Jack scooped up the liquid gratefully and swilled it to allow it to moisten the inside of his mouth. He had no purifying tablets; they were in his pack, which was in a hut back in the village. And the two he always carried in his combat vest for emergencies were lost along with the vest itself.

 

And his P-90.

 

Under the excuse of sipping the water he let his eyes wander. There were at least twenty riders, all armed with pistols, old-fashioned muskets and swords. He couldn’t see his missing equipment.

 

He let the water slide deliciously down his parched throat, and then sluiced his grimy face; feeling the beginnings of a growth of stubble along his jaw-line, and carefully assessing his bruised face. He was fairly certain now that bruising was all it was. Thankfully, he didn’t think his jaw or cheek were broken; medi-care seeming to be the least of his captors’ concerns.

 

As he was escorted back to the trees he passed Cady, with Shauna and Hanoki, being ushered down to the water-line. He grinned encouragingly at them before being pushed on with the business end of a cudgel.

 

Lying in the sparse shade offered by a sad excuse for a bush he allowed his half-closed eyes to roam over the band of chained villagers and the riders. Mister Representative had sorted out a patch of shade under the only piece of vegetation that could rightly be called a tree, and had found a chair from somewhere.

 

Interesting.

 

And the man was . . .

 

Uh, oh . . .

 

Jack narrowed his eyes even further.

 

That was definitely a combat vest.

 

And that was quite certainly a . . .

 

The air was rent by the explosion of a P-90 firing.

 

The Representative dropped the gun as if it had fired a shot of electricity through him and he back-pedalled from the weapon in such a comically windmilling fashion that Jack would, under any other circumstances, have been moved to laughter.

 

Here, he just lay and watched.

 

As did everyone else, attracted by the considerable noise.

 

It took a while for Mister Very Shaken Representative to recover his poise, but when he did he searched the group of slaves quickly with furious eyes.

 

‘There!’ he gestured. ‘Those two. Fetch them hither.’

 

Hither? Jack wondered. But, ‘Shut up and follow my lead,’ was all he managed to Cady, as they were dragged from the crowd and pushed towards His Eminence.

 

Jack had little time to think; however, trawling his memory, he was almost certain Cady hadn’t been wearing his own vest when he was negotiating with the chief. Something about it being discourteous to do so.

 

Jack was also as certain as he could be that neither had Cady been armed.

 

If the vest was Jack’s, the contents included a couple of purifying tablets, two ammo clips, three MREs, his radio and his GDO. As well as an assortment of other pieces he liked to keep to hand, like a roll of string and a penlight. And a yo-yo.

 

If the gun were Jack’s, and had not belonged to Hill or Brooks, it would now be close to being out of ammo. Back in the village, he’d fired a prolonged burst before going down underneath the blow.

 

Grimacing, and chewing the inside of his cheek he stood and looked at the offending articles until Mister Eminence gingerly picked up the vest.

 

And holding it up for general inspection, asked, ‘What is this unknown attire?’

 

‘It’s not a tyre,’ Jack said. ‘It’s a vest.’ Weak. But the best he could do at present.

 

‘A vest?’

 

‘Yeah. Everyone’s wearing them this year. They’re really fashionable.’ Without much effort his tone slipped into insolence.

 

His Eminence nodded to someone behind Jack. And a blow between the shoulders drove him to his knees.

 

‘You dare to mock the appointed representative of His Majesty?’

 

‘Uh, . . . well . . .’ Jack appeared to give the question some serious consideration, before he said, ‘yes. Apparently.’

 

Another blow landed him cheek first into the dirt.

 

Terrific.

 

Pushing himself back to his knees, he watched as the vest’s pockets were opened and the contents exposed. His Greatness turned the unfamiliar items over in his hands. The MREs caused consternation; probably because, Jack decided, the man had never come across plastic, sealed wrapping before.

 

‘What are these?’

 

‘Food.’ Nothing like confusing him further, if at all possible.

 

‘Food? You eat these? What strange creatures are you? You are not of the tribe of these others.’ He gestured towards Hanoki and his followers.

 

‘We’re no stranger than you,’ Jack replied. ‘We were just visiting Hanky and his folks. And it was all going really well ‘til you all butted in,’ he ended insolently.

 

Mister Ambassador narrowed his eyes but let the insult pass.

 

‘You live close by?’

 

Jack tilted his head and raised an eyebrow mockingly. ‘Like I’m gonna tell you that, for crying out loud. You just want to go out and bag a few more unfortunate slaves.’

 

The eyes coldly searched his own. And Jack knew he was doing himself no favours by lacing his voice with impertinence.

 

Then the man looked hard at Cady. Who said nothing.

 

Looking down at the vest Mister Confused Representative covered his obvious uncertainty by continuing to pull out items from the pockets. The ammo clips were next. And instantly the man’s eyes flickered to the P-90 he had inadvertently fired earlier.

 

Shit.

 

‘These are extra . . . shot . . . for your . . . muskets?’ He could obviously see the similarities between the pieces he held and the composition of the gun.

 

Jack shrugged.

 

The Representative gestured for one of his aides to pick up the P-90, which still lay on the floor.

 

And Jack watched with narrowed eyes. Beside him he could feel Cady stiffen.

 

Please God let the thing no longer be loaded. The trigger would be so much lighter than anything these people would be used to. The merest pressure and someone could easily find they were suddenly much more ventilated than they were before.

 

However, perhaps warned by the previous explosion, the aide was very tentative about handling the weapon, and passed it over without causing any unexpected and unwanted damage.

 

The barrel swept up in front of Jack’s face, as Mister I’m In Charge took hold of the gun, and Jack couldn’t help but flinch and turn his head away. Wincing and shutting his eyes in a reflex action.

 

Jeeeeeez! If Mister Follower of King James caught his finger in the trigger guard . . . Jack tried not to think about the irony of his body being ripped apart by bullets from his own gun.

 

‘I wish to be told how they are reloaded.’

 

Jack cracked an eye open. The gun was pointing at him.

 

Crap.

 

‘Nope.’ He said bravely. Or foolishly.

 

‘This fits together . . . how?’ The clip was waved in one hand, and the P-90 in the other.

 

Shit! Be careful!

 

Jack took a deep steadying breath, and said, ‘Nope. Not playing.’

 

Mister Representative started to cautiously fiddle with the P-90. But he couldn’t disengage the magazine. Jack watched carefully, ready to throw himself to the floor, or at Reppy, if it looked like bullets were going to start flying. And he knew Cady was similarly poised.

 

‘Tell me!’ Angered impatience was creeping into the man’s voice.

 

Jack looked at him, hard and long. ‘No.’

 

‘You are the possession of King James. I am his appointed representative. You will tell me what I want to know, or I will punish you.’ Eyes flickered sideways. ‘And your friend.’

 

‘Him? He knows nothing,’ Jack shrugged dismissively. ‘He’s just a . . . uh . . .’ he searched for the right word, one Reppy would understand, ‘ . . . uh . . . a scholar. He doesn’t know anything about weapons. He just writes things down.’

 

He felt Cady stiffen in outrage.

 

‘Then *you* will tell me how it works!’ Reppy demanded, his face getting flushed with temper now. Always a dangerous proposition for someone when the person in a tantrum was holding a loaded weapon.

 

‘No.’ Jack continued to be stubborn.

 

‘Tell me!’ He lifted the gun, and Jack saw the finger find the trigger.

 

‘Noooooooo . . .’ Jack screamed as he threw himself forward.

 

The gun went off with a deafening, deadly rattle.

 

Caught out by Jack’s sudden movement, the guards couldn’t prevent him from bowling Mister Representative over.

 

As Jack’s hands desperately clawed for the weapon, as suddenly as it had started to fire, its appalling noise ceased.

 

Jack struggled frantically against hands that caught at his uniform and which then pinned him down; but although he tried with every ounce of strength to buck himself free, he couldn’t escape those who forcibly held him down.

 

With the already heavily bruised right side of his face pressed into the dirt, and hands all over his shoulder blades, back and legs, Jack relaxed and just waited.

 

He had lost Round One.

 

Mister Rather Deflated Ego picked himself up, and lifted the weapon. He tried to fire it into the air. But the clip was empty.

 

A deafening hush held everyone’s attention.

 

He pointed it at Jack. ‘You will be worth much in the slave market. You are strong. And stubborn. And will command a goodly price. But,’ his eyes gleamed with malice, ‘you must learn you *are* a slave. You are no longer a soldier.’

 

He looked at those who held Jack. ‘Tie him to the tree. He will have no food or water until I order it. But . . . first . . . ‘ he advanced and gestured for Jack to be hauled to his feet. Then he drove the gun into Jack’s gut, and then hefted it into the side of his head.

 

Hard.

 

Jack lost consciousness.

 

 

************

 

 

When he came to he had his back to a tree with his hands pulled back behind the trunk, and tied very securely. Leaning back, and letting the percussion section that was having a rehearsal of its latest cacophonous work inside his head, play itself out, he tried to fit the pieces together. Whoever King James was he was obviously intent on a little empire building, and Hanoki and his unfortunate villagers had gotten caught in the crossfire.

 

It would seem, though, that Mister High And Mighty Representative was unaware of the existence of the Stargate. He might be curious about Cady and Jack and their odd weapons and clothing. But he seemed at present to take it at face value that they had merely came from another village.

 

Whether he would continue to hold that view was anyone’s guess.

 

From where he was, Jack could see his companions in misfortune being herded to the river side, and across the water he could see a wooden platform making its way from the other bank.

 

Ferry would have been too glamorous a description for the transport, which was just a long flat wooden contraption with barriers at the sides to stop folks falling overboard. The captain, Jack smiled to himself at the extravagant word, was using a long wooden pole as a rudder to guide the transport against the current.

 

Having to be divided up into manageable groups, it was clearly going to take time to get everyone across the river.

 

Jack took the time available to him to try and free his hands, but all he got for his troubles were skinned wrists.

 

Looking away to his right he could see Reppy sitting under cover letting others do the work. He was turning an MRE over and over in his hands. When he tired of that he held up some thing else and began to examine the small round object.

 

Jack’s yo-yo.

 

Well, long may he entertain himself with that, he thought.

 

Jack was much more concerned about the P-90. And the penlight. Things that definitely marked him, and, by association, Cady, apart from Hanoki and the others.

 

The afternoon wore on, as the slaves were shipped across the river and chained together on the other side.

 

As the sky was beginning to darken, Jack was finally released from the tree and ushered to the ferry with his hands still tied behind his back, to make up part of the last contingent. Cady was also there. And Hanoki.

 

‘You okay, sir?’ Cady enquired quietly.

 

Jack shrugged. ‘I’ve been worse.’

 

He tried a grin, which he suspected was rather lop-sided as he was certain his face was hideously swollen where the gun had made contact; adding to the bruising on the same side of the face, from the earlier cudgel blow. All in all, Jack reckoned that his right cheek was probably looking quite colourful by now.

 

Cady looked slightly disbelieving.

 

‘Trust me, Lieutenant, I’ve been a lot worse.’ He grinned what was possibly a quite gruesome grin, and went on, ‘Been a lot better, too. But there you go. Tell me,’ he looked about, before asking the question he’d really needed to know the answer to since he’d recovered consciousness, ‘was anyone hurt when the gun went off?’

 

Cady shook his head. ‘No, sir. The bullets went into the air, thanks to you.’

 

Jack felt a weight slide off his shoulders, and he released a deep sigh. ‘Thank God.’

 

Settling down, he stretched his long legs out, and leaned back against the ferry’s railings to take stock.

 

No one seemed to have noticed his quiet conversation with Cady. The guards were busy loading Mister Representative’s rather unwilling horse on to the ferry, along with their own steeds, and Mister Representative himself was seated in his chair, now aboard the ferry, still examining Jack’s yo-yo.

 

‘Anything to report, Cady?’

 

The Lieutenant flicked his eyes from side to side before answering. Then, deciding the coast was still clear, he murmured carefully, ‘I heard them say this is the only river crossing for miles, sir. They’re pretty pissed about it and there was quite a bit of moaning about the fact that they have to rely on the old guy to get them across all the time.’

 

Jack grunted in response.

 

Cady continued surreptitiously, ‘They want to take charge of the ferry and tell the old man to get lost.’

 

‘Bastards,’ Jack muttered. ‘I s’pose the poor fella’s been running the thing for years, until they came along.’

 

Cady half-shrugged. ‘Guess so, yes sir.’

 

‘Anything more on our happy hosts?’

 

‘Ummm, only that they don’t really like it here.’

 

‘They’re not the only ones,’ Jack grumbled.

 

‘Apparently, their homeland is a long way away across some great ocean. And they like it better there. Life’s not so hard. But, they’re are all pioneers and have to build up a colony here in the name of their king.’

 

Jack grunted under his breath in response to this information.

 

‘This group is in charge of finding people they can use as labour to clear and work the land. Apparently, when we get to the town, they intend to sell us to the plantation owners.’

 

‘Colonisation,’ Jack said grimly. ‘Ya gotta love it.’

 

Cady was saying something else, but Jack had been distracted, his eyes narrowing as he saw the combat vest and P-90 carried aboard to make up part of the baggage this trip.

  

Sitting back quietly, Jack tilted his head back and gave a good impression of someone exhausted and tired. From underneath half-shut eyelids he watched as the ferry-master cast off and guided the boat out on to the water. The river was extremely wide, and the current appeared to be uncertain, catching the craft unawares and taxing the skill of the captain to keep her heading towards the other bank, where the other slaves and guards were gathered. Jack could see the water press against the side with rushing white eddies, indicating the speed of the tide, and he watched the captain’s arms strain and bulge with the effort of keeping a steady course.

 

It was clear that a rider on horseback would find this a difficult obstacle to cross.

 

He filed that information away for future use. And went back to calculating distances between himself and the P-90 and combat vest which were conveniently piled together beside Mister Still Having Fun With A Yo-Yo. He was welcome to do what he liked with the toy. It was the weapon and the clips of extra ammunition that Jack was particularly concerned about. The weapon could do some serious damage if someone worked out how to use it. It could also lead to more questions than Jack was prepared to answer. As could the GDO, which hadn’t been on his wrist, but in one of the pockets of his vest.

 

The whole situation was too fraught with imponderables and uncertainties for his liking.

 

Easing his shoulders along the railing, Jack inched his foot out.

 

No one took any notice.

 

Except Cady. Who looked away instantly.

 

The guards had obviously decided no one was going to do anything in the middle of a fast-running river, and Mister In Charge was too busy having fun with the yo-yo.

 

Jack eased further sideways under the guise of scratching his cheek on the railing.

 

Nodding his head forward as if tired, he measured the distance carefully.

 

He slid his foot further forwards with clandestine cautiousness, before suddenly swiping it sideways with decisive and satisfying accuracy.

 

The guards reacted to the sound too late. Mister Soon To Be One Very Pissed Off Representative shouted his anger and sprang to the side.

 

In time to see the vest and P-90 disappear beneath the surface.

 

Jack looked up and smiled innocently. ‘Oops. Clumsy me.’

 

Mister Now Definitely One Very Pissed Off Representative said nothing. He didn’t have to. The fire in his eyes said everything. Flinging himself around he ripped a riding crop from a saddle and, with no care for the restricted space on the craft, began to flay Jack around the head and shoulders.

 

Only the restless shifting of the horses to avoid the disturbance gave him cause to stop.

 

‘You’ll pay for that,’ he assured Jack from between gritted teeth.

 

‘Sorry. All out of money.’ Jack tried to smile ingratiatingly, despite the blood he could feel running down his face. He’d ducked. But not well enough. He could tell that his unlucky eyebrow was split again.

 

‘I didn’t mean that way.’ The boot caught him under the ribs and Jack folded over gasping for air, left in no doubt about the method of payment that would be exacted.

 

 

***************

 

 

Once the ferry docked on the other side, Jack was hauled ashore by several of the guards.

 

Mister Seriously Unhappy Representative had already disembarked and was on horseback in what Jack decided was an intimidation tactic.

 

The man’s mouth tightened in obvious disapproval, and he gestured to his goons who pulled O’Neill closer, so that their leader could run his eyes over the captive. Jack stood still and let the man judge him. Giving him eyeball for eyeball. Which wasn’t very sensible, probably. But somehow he figured sensible was going to get him about as far as being downright reckless.

 

‘Pay attention!’ the horseman’s voice was loud and carried over the mass of enslaved humanity.

 

Word of events aboard the ferry had spread as an audible ripple through the crowd, all of whom now watched with fear veiling their eyes. And a thankfulness that it was not they that had drawn attention to themselves.

 

‘You are now all the property of His Majesty, King James. As his representative I am able to do with you as I please.’ He paused for effect. ‘You will be taken to the market in town. There I shall sell you to those who need slaves to work their land. Anyone who tries to escape will be punished. Anyone who causes trouble will be punished.’ His cold eyes alighted on O’Neill. They were empty of pity, or, indeed, of any kind of emotion. They were amongst the most unfeeling eyes Jack could remember looking into. And he’d looked into a few over the years.

 

The slaver surveyed his goods. ‘This man has refused to accept my authority. He has defied me. And that I will not accept. Watch. And learn.’

 

He nodded to his henchmen. Who were obviously well trained, because they needed no further instructions. Jack’s hands were freed, momentarily, before being tied together in front of him and attached to a long extra rope, which was quickly thrown over an overhead branch. Given minimum chance to struggle by the heavy tank-like goons Jack was hauled off his feet.

 

Uh, oh. Been here before, Jack thought dismally.

 

As the goons stepped back he couldn’t resist a futile face-saving kick at the retreating heavyweights.

 

He connected satisfyingly with a thigh.

 

But had little time to enjoy his mini victory before a hefty fist buried itself in his gut.

 

‘Wait!’

 

Struggling for breath, Jack looked at Mister King James Is My Boss, who was pointing with a whip at O’Neill’s feet. Dangling helplessly off the ground. Weighed down by the attached chains.

 

It was a battle, and the goons got kicked and spat on for their troubles. O’Neill got a vicious back-hander to the mouth that split his lip, and several brutal thumps to the ribs.

 

But the goons got his boots and socks in the end.

 

One of them presented them to the horseman, who admired them and turned them around to inspect his new acquisitions. Obviously pleased, he then nodded to the goons.

 

‘Hey,’ Jack managed, between drawing in painful breaths, ‘you only had to ask. They’re just an old pair. Nothing special. I was gonna throw them out. You’re welcome to my cast-offs you freakin’ muppet.’

 

The man’s eyes narrowed. Then he flicked his whip viciously in Jack’s direction. ‘Observe what happens if you anger me,’ he announced to the crowd of silent watchers.

 

And Jack supposed that making an example of one saved Mister Boot Robber the rebellion of many. Producing fear of what might happen to you if you disobeyed was a powerful mind control.

 

Jack was comforted by the fact that the P-90 was now happily at the bottom of the river. And he could assume that the other weapons were back in the village, because so far they hadn’t been produced.

 

Hopefully Carter and Haynes, if SG-7’s regular commander was recovered, or whoever else got the fun job of mounting a rescue mission, would collect them before any other happy King James Campers got their hands on them and started shooting up the neigbourhood of innocent bystanders.

 

He’d hoped that he might escape really severe punishment for his little weapons-overboard stunt.

 

Apparently not.

 

Crap.

 

And other assorted words of that ilk.

 

He heard the murmurs of the crowd and twisted his head to try and see what they had seen.

 

And then wished he hadn’t.

 

 

*********

 

 

 

Part 3

 

 

 

They left him hanging there. All night. As a message to the others.

 

And by the time he regained consciousness the following morning he reckoned that everyone had absorbed it pretty well. It was, after all, written into his skin loud and clear for everyone to see.

 

And those who couldn’t see it because they might be blind, or simply too frightened to look, would have damned well heard him screaming, so there was no danger of anyone within, oh, he had to reckon at least a five mile radius, not having sorted out that pissing these guys off was not good for your future health and well-being.

 

It certainly hadn’t been good for Jack’s. In his alter ego as Mister Example To The Masses.

 

His arms and shoulders were aching with a burning fierceness, and, as the morning wore on, breathing became much more of an effort as his ribs had to fight gravity with no support from his legs, which were suspended a good metre off the ground.

 

And through it all, the brutal branding inflamed into his side constantly reminded him of the punishment they had inflicted after they had ripped away his tee-shirt. The hot poker they had held against his skin until it began to peel away and the tender flesh underneath began to cook.

 

He had smelt his own body fry.

 

And he had twisted in desperation like some grotesque marionette displayed for a child’s terror. But they had held the burning metal against him no matter how he tried to escape it.

 

And he had screamed.

 

And screamed.

 

As the morning wore on, Jack’s head eventually fell forward in weariness. And he shut his eyes so he didn’t have to look at the evidence of his further humiliation, spread across the front of his combat pants. He didn’t even remember doing it, as he thrashed and flopped like a fish fighting for survival at the end of a line, but he’d quite clearly lost control in the agonising throes of trying to ride out the savagery of the torture.

 

Jack had only a long and pain-filled memory of screaming, despite his best efforts not to.

 

Before passing out.

 

 

***

 

The camp was being disbanded.

 

And Jack could only watch.

 

And try to breathe.

 

And try to ignore the unpleasant odour that seeped up to his nostrils from the front of his pants.

 

And try to ignore the fact that every breath was a struggle.

 

And try to ignore the vicious spasms of muscle cramps in his arms, shoulders and neck.

 

And the knife-stabbing pain of poor circulation to his hands.

 

And the enflamed swollen wound in his side.

 

Until, eventually, someone came to cut the rope above his head that suspended him from the tree branch, so that he fell and ended up sprawled in the dirt, hands still tied, eyeball to boot cap.

 

If his shoulders or arms had been in anything resembling working order he’d have pushed himself upright. Unfortunately, both were somewhat hampered by severe cramps and the savage sensation of blood suddenly rediscovering veins and arteries neglected for the last several hours thanks to the suspension of arms above head.

 

It was all Jack could do not to weep, as he felt the liquid burn down the blood vessels inside his arms.

 

Instead he concentrated hard – very hard – on the boot under his cheek.

 

A boot that eventually moved to flip him carelessly over on to his back.

 

‘You are a mess.’

 

There seemed little point in finding any energy to answer Mister Representative’s observation, so Jack remained silent. Working hard at his breathing instead.

 

And trying to ignore the pain in his damaged side.

 

‘You smell.’

 

Yes. He knew. He’d had the aroma for