TITLE: Bloodstains on the Wall
AUTHOR: Tiffany Park
EMAIL: anderson7836@comcast.net
STATUS: Complete
CATEGORY: Drama, Missing Scenes for "The Broca Divide"
SPOILERS: The Broca Divide
SEASON: Early Season One, during and just after "The Broca Divide"
PAIRINGS: None
RATING: R
CONTENT WARNINGS: Language, some violence
SUMMARY: The Touched virus has devastating effects on Colonel Makepeace and SG-3.
ARCHIVE: Just here.
DISCLAIMER: Stargate SG-1 and its characters are the property of Stargate (II) Productions, Showtime/Viacom, MGM/UA, Double Secret Productions, and Gekko Productions. This story is for entertainment purposes only and no money exchanged hands. No copyright infringement is intended. The original characters, situations, and story are the property of the author. This story may not be posted elsewhere without the consent of the author.
AUTHOR'S NOTES: Written for the ColRMakepeaceSG-3 list. Many thanks to Besterette, Jessie, and especially Bruni for beta'ing and commentary.

Paperwork was proving to be a lousy distraction.

Colonel Makepeace leaned back in his chair and glared so hard at the triplicate forms that by all rights they should have ignited. He hadn't been able to concentrate enough to get much written down, and the blank lines and empty boxes on the papers testified to his lack of focus.

He couldn't shake the image of Lieutenant Johnson literally foaming at the mouth.

In frustration, he flung his pen across his office. The light clatter of hollow plastic bouncing off the wall and onto the floor didn't provide much gratification, so he scanned his desk, looking for something heavier, something that would break.

When his gaze lit upon the silly dinosaur paperweight--a treasured gift from a favorite nephew--he growled at himself and forcibly restrained his temper. He pushed his chair back, got up, and prowled around the room.

It wasn't exactly a large office. Space was at a premium in the underground installation. Four steps brought him to the door, then he did an abrupt about-face and paced to his desk. Three steps beyond that had him at the back wall. He walked back and forth a few more times, clenching and unclenching his fists. It wasn't helping.

Damn, he hated waiting.

Fraiser had thrown him out of the infirmary--oh, very respectfully, to be sure--shortly after Johnson had been restrained and sedated. She'd politely but firmly told him to stay out of her hair, and had promised to contact him as soon as she knew anything. Still, it had been over an hour already, and so far nada from medic-land. Makepeace stopped pacing and stared at his phone, willing it to ring. Nothing. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, leashing his anger and impatience.

More visions of Johnson flashed across his mental landscape. He tried to banish the images, but perversely his mind replayed the entire nightmarish sequence: Johnson lunging at Teal'c across the briefing room table in rabid fury, defying all orders back down; Teal'c's demonstration of his terrifying, inhuman strength as he easily subdued Johnson; General Hammond shouting demands and the uncomprehending, animalistic look on Johnson's face, his eyes dull and blank as froth drooled from his mouth; the SFs who physically hauled the demented lieutenant away to the infirmary.

Makepeace repressed a shudder. It had been unnerving to see the ultra-professional Kevin Johnson behaving like some kind of irrational Neanderthal, and he couldn't stop thinking about it.

He started to pace again, stalking from behind his desk to the file cabinet on the adjacent wall. A coffee maker, its glass pot half full of cold leftover coffee, and a mug sat on top of the cabinet. He stopped and stared at them. Considering how wired he felt, caffeine was the last thing he needed.

What the devil was taking Fraiser so long, anyway? What was she doing to Johnson?

Suddenly all his pent-up anger and frustration surged through him in an uncontrollable rush. He snatched up the mug and hurled it at the opposite wall. It shattered in a satisfying explosion of ceramic shards. The coffeepot ruptured against the concrete before he even realized he'd thrown it. Coffee drenched the wall and spattered the floor.

He flashed a hateful glance at the security camera in a corner near the ceiling, furiously realizing that his little display of temper had been recorded for posterity. Just wonderful. He ought to aim the next projectile at that damned electronic voyeur.

Then again, maybe he'd better get a grip on himself before he destroyed everything he owned.

He clasped his hands behind his back to keep himself from breaking anything else and just prowled. Back and forth, back and forth. His office felt more and more like a cage.

He had to find a way to work off his nervous energy. Maybe he needed to visit the gym and snag a sparring partner. He could probably control himself enough not to hurt anyone. Probably.

A knock on the door brought him up short. He paused beside his desk. "Come in," he called, grateful for the distraction.

The door swung open and General Hammond entered. Doctor Fraiser followed him, carrying a small, black bag. Before the door closed Makepeace saw two SFs waiting out in the hall.

"Sir," he greeted cautiously. "Doctor Fraiser."

"Colonel," Hammond returned. His eyes flicked over to one side.

Makepeace followed his glance and almost cringed at the wet splotch on the wall. Dark trails ran down the cement to join the mess of coffee and broken glass on the floor. The general, however, just raised a knowing brow and didn't say a word.

"Sir, is this about Johnson?" Makepeace asked anxiously, fearing the worst. Why else would they come visit him, instead of calling him to the infirmary, or just using the phone? He looked at Fraiser. "How is he?"

"I'm sorry, Colonel, but Lieutenant Johnson's condition has worsened," Fraiser said, watching him with an expression Makepeace could only describe as wary. "We've had to put him into isolation. I don't know what's causing his behavior, but my best guess is that it's some kind of biochemical imbalance. So far, though, we haven't identified a causative agent."

"Is it something he picked up on the planet? Some disease, some substance that was in the air?"

Fraiser shrugged. "It's possible, but at this point I just don't know. I'm sorry, sir. Also--" She hesitated and glanced at Hammond, who nodded.

"What else?" Makepeace asked, feeling his stomach turn over. From the way these two were pussyfooting around, it had to be something disastrous. Hammond's expression was grim, and Fraiser had retreated behind a mask of detached professionalism.

"Your other two teammates were affected as well," Fraiser stated flatly. "They appeared to have the same symptoms as Lieutenant Johnson."

"So Fletcher and Dillard are in isolation, too?"

"Maybe you'd better sit down, Colonel," Hammond suggested gently.

Makepeace stared at him. "What happened?" He took a deep breath to steady himself and remained standing. "Sir?"

Hammond gave him an appraising look. "Colonel, a little while ago, they got into a fight in one of the conference rooms overlooking the Stargate."

Makepeace stayed silent. His hands tightened into fists as he waited for Hammond to lower the boom.

The general went on, "They crashed through an observation window and fell the entire distance to the floor. Sergeant Fletcher is dead. I'm sorry, Colonel."

"His neck broke on impact," Fraiser added. "He didn't suffer, Colonel. Death was instantaneous."

Like that was some kind of consolation. Makepeace closed his eyes briefly. "And Dillard?" he heard himself say.

Fraiser answered, "Sergeant Dillard's back was broken in two places, in the thoracic and lumbar regions. The spinal cord's been damaged. There's also a neck injury involved. Doctor Warner's still working on him, but so far the prognosis doesn't look good."

"Meaning?"

"He'll live, but he'll be paraplegic, at best. I'm sorry, Colonel."

If he heard "I'm sorry, Colonel" one more time he'd murder someone. His entire team had been decimated in a little over an hour, and they were fucking sorry? Johnson was locked up, Dillard was crippled, and Fletcher was dead, but hey--Hammond and Fraiser were sorry.

They were just mouthing platitudes. Damn zoomies. What the hell did they care about a few leathernecks? Fraiser had some experimental subjects and a new medical mystery to play with, and Hammond-- Makepeace inhaled sharply. This was all Hammond's fault!

It was General Hammond who had ordered them to go through the Stargate blind, into the pitch-black night side of that godforsaken planet. The MALP's lights and camera had been defective and no visual information had been transmitted back to the SGC, but hell, why let that slow you down? What had been the damn rush, anyway? Would it have killed Hammond to wait a day, to send another MALP through first, one that actually had working lights?

He clenched his teeth so hard they hurt, as he tried to control a wave of burning anger.

And Doctor Fraiser--she had her share of blame in this, too. This had to be something from that fucking planet. None of his men had had any problems like this before they'd gone to P3X-797. Wasn't Fraiser in charge of biological screenings? Shouldn't she have picked up on weird shit in the environment like chemicals and alien pathogens?

A red mist filmed his vision. His rage grew.

"--a precautionary measure," Hammond was saying.

"What?" He realized he hadn't heard anything the general had said.

"I said, we'd like you to come to the infirmary," Hammond repeated patiently. "Since your whole team has been affected--"

Now they wanted to experiment on him? After everything they'd done? Makepeace let out a blood-curdling howl and lunged forward, grabbing Hammond and slamming him against the wall. The last shred of sanity fled at the contact. He felt cloth and flesh give beneath his fingers, heard a man shouting, a woman calling for help. Noises of pain inspired him to tighten his grip, and he reveled in the violence.

A door flew open, then hard hands were on him, pulling him away, pinning him to the cold floor. More shouts. More grunts of pain--his own, this time. He struggled, screaming his fury. An instant later he felt a sharp prick in his arm, but it was a small, faraway thing compared to the rage burning through his veins.

The strength went out of his limbs and his muscles turned to jelly. Everything blurred and faded into darkness.

Makepeace groaned as he came to consciousness. He felt like he'd gone ten rounds with a gorilla--and lost. Painfully, he rolled onto his back. Everything hurt, from his feet to the hair on his head. His body was one big ache. His hands, wrists, elbows and knees all throbbed in time to his heartbeat, which seemed much, much louder than usual. His head felt like it was stuffed full of cotton wadding, and it pounded mercilessly. His mouth tasted like dirty gym socks. Even his face hurt.

"Oh, crap," he croaked out of a raw throat. "Goddamn-son-of-a-bitch." He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt this bad. Not even the worst hangover in his memory could match this.

Reluctantly, he opened his eyes, but squinted them shut again when the light stabbed straight into his skull. After a moment, he tried again, this time managing to keep them open. Overhead was a gray, cement ceiling. It was fairly uninteresting, given that the entire base seemed composed of concrete. He decided that the lighting really wasn't very bright, but in his experience headaches and light never mixed and this was no exception.

He levered himself into a sitting position. His vision swam and the pounding in his skull increased. He held his head in both hands for a moment, eyes clenched shut. When the headache subsided to dull throbbing he blinked gunk from his eyes and checked himself over, looking for the physical damage all those aches and pains kept telling him about.

He was startled to discover he was half naked, wearing only his shorts and a tee-shirt so torn the cloth hung in ragged tatters from his shoulders. He didn't seem to have any severe injuries, but multicolored bruising decorated the exposed skin of his chest, stomach, arms, and legs, and there were scabbed-over cuts and scrapes among the bruises on his knees, elbows, forearms, hands--hell, even his feet.

Had he gotten into a fight? Whatever had happened, it was clear he'd been on the losing end. But where had his clothes gone?

The air held an astringent scent of antiseptic that almost masked less pleasant odors. He wrinkled his nose and glanced around. His vision was still blurry, but he was able to make out his surroundings. The room was small, with concrete walls, floor, and ceiling. A stainless steel toilet and sink stood against the far wall. A metal door barricaded the wall at his back. An overturned set of metal-framed bunk beds lay in the center of the floor, the pillows ripped apart. The mattress he was sitting on obviously came from one of the beds. It was more comfortable than the rock-hard floor, but the bunks would have been better still. Why had they been knocked over like that?

There were dark, red-brown stains on one of the walls. He looked again at the bruises and scabs on his arms and legs, then back to the wall. From this distance, those stains looked to be roughly at knee, arm, and shoulder height. Makepeace frowned.

He pushed himself to his feet, then paused, waiting for the sudden rush of dizziness to pass. He hesitated a moment, his attention divided between the door and the disturbing promise of that stained wall, but pragmatism won out and he turned to the door. Something tangled his feet, and he stumbled to his hands and knees with a jarring thud.

When he stopped swearing, Makepeace saw that his feet had caught in a heap of torn camouflage cloth. He lifted the unwearable remains of a BDU blouse with an SG-3 team patch on the right sleeve. His blouse. It had been shredded, as though by a wild animal. The pants weren't in any better condition. His fingers twisted the fabric into knots. What the hell had happened here?

He left the ruins of his clothes on the floor, got up, and tried the door handle. Naturally it was locked.

He glowered at it, then yelled, "Is anyone out there? Hello?" There was no response. He slammed a fist against the door, then yelped and yanked his hand back when a jolt of pain shot through his arm. "God damn it," he snarled through clenched teeth, clutching his injured hand to his chest. "Of all the stupid--" That had not been one of his brighter ideas.

He leaned his back against the door, waiting for the new and improved throbbing to subside to tolerable levels. To distract himself, he wiped the last of the gunk from his eyes and gave the cell--it was obviously a cell of some sort--a more thorough inspection. From this new vantage point he finally noticed that he had a roommate: a large man wearing woodlands camouflage lying on another mattress, partially hidden on the other side of the overturned bunks.

The man was curled up on his side, facing the wall. Makepeace walked around the bunks and knelt down beside him to check his pulse and breathing. The man was unconscious, but otherwise seemed okay. Makepeace gently rolled him onto his back. The face that came into view belonged to Lieutenant Seaton from Security. Makepeace gave him a critical once-over. Seaton had some bruises, the most notable of which was an impressive shiner, but didn't appear seriously injured.

Like Makepeace, Seaton was barefoot. However, the lieutenant was fully clothed. Makepeace envied the man his trousers.

Seaton moaned. His eyelids fluttered.

Makepeace sat back on his heels. "Come on, Seaton," he encouraged. "Open your eyes. You can do it."

It was clear that the lieutenant was quite happy to remain unconscious. Makepeace sympathized, but he was more interested in answers than Seaton's comfort. He nudged Seaton in the arm and repeated his order to wake up.

Finally, Seaton rubbed his forehead and groaned, "Shit, what the fuck happened?"

"I was hoping you could tell me."

Seaton's eyes flicked open and immediately closed again. He grimaced and covered his face with an arm. "Christ, those lights are loud."

Makepeace uttered a short laugh. "No, they're actually set pretty low. You've just got the mother of all hangovers."

The only reply to that was another groan. Seaton made an abortive attempt to get up, then flopped back down on the mattress, panting. Makepeace's own aches and pains throbbed in sympathy. He couldn't help but feel a certain amount of kinship with his fellow sufferer, and helped the unhappy lieutenant to sit up and lean against the wall.

"Thanks," Seaton grunted. He looked up, gasped and stiffened. His eyes narrowed, and he pressed his back against the wall, looking as though he wanted to melt into it. His hand groped at his hip for his missing sidearm.

Makepeace glanced over his shoulder, wondering what had provoked the lieutenant's defensive reaction. Nothing remarkable there. He turned back, and realized that Seaton was watching him with a wary expression.

Reluctantly, Makepeace concluded that Seaton was afraid of him, although for the life of him he didn't know why. He edged back a little, to give Seaton some breathing room. "Is there a problem, Lieutenant?"

Seaton flinched at the sharp tone. He shifted uneasily and said, "I hope not. You all right now, sir?"

"Now?" Startled, Makepeace scowled and regarded the man. "I'm fine, Seaton."

Seaton watched him suspiciously. Makepeace considered the evidence: his cut and bruised limbs, his shredded BDUs. He again looked at the bloodstained wall and made a distressed noise as he finally connected the dots. No wonder Seaton looked worried. Slowly, he said, "I went wacko, like Lieutenant Johnson, didn't I?"

"Yes, sir," Seaton confirmed hesitantly. "I'm afraid so, sir."

Shock held Makepeace silent for a moment. He imagined himself foaming at the mouth in an animalistic rage and had to repress a shudder. He caught the tail end of Seaton's furtive glance at the door, and said dryly, "It's locked. And if anyone's out there, they've got a severe hearing problem. Either that, or they plain ignored me when I yelled."

"Yes, sir." Seaton looked downcast, then abruptly blurted out, "Oh, crap. If I'm locked in here with you, that means I must have caught it, too." When Makepeace gave him a curious look, he quickly added, "Sir."

"Never mind that. Caught what? Was it some kind of disease?"

"Yeah, it was this weird crud from that planet you guys went to. Some kind of alien virus. Really contagious."

"How do you know that?"

Seaton said matter-of-factly, "Command and Medical kept Security briefed on what was going on, and up to date on what the brains figured out about the disease. They wanted to make sure we understood what we were up against."

Makepeace nodded. That made sense. "And?" he asked.

"They said the disease made everyone go all primitive."

Makepeace winced, took a deep breath to steady himself, and forced himself to ask, "Lieutenant, what exactly do you mean by primitive?"

Seaton's face was a study in mixed emotions. Makepeace read concern, most likely about giving a superior bad news, anxiety about what might happen next, relief at the rational dialogue.

Seaton tried to settle himself more comfortably on the mattress, wincing as he moved, and said, "Exactly that, sir. Really primitive. Ape-like. The scientists said the disease somehow releases what they called 'the primitive mind' and allows it to become dominant. It even changed people physically. You grew brow ridges and had, um, some extra hair. Sir."

Makepeace grimaced at the colorful image that came to mind and lightly touched his face. Other than a few sore spots, it felt normal. "Like some kind of Neanderthal?"

Seaton shrugged. "From what I understand, it was a mixture of primitive human and pre-human characteristics. That's what the brain trust claimed, at any rate. Does that help?"

"No."

"Oh." Seaton looked thoughtful and tried again. "Well, apparently some of that planet's population was infected, too. Do you remember anything about some people the locals called the Touched?"

Makepeace vividly recalled the savage brutes he and his team had driven off of SG-1, back when they had first arrived on P3X-797. He had become one of those things? The mere idea made him want to throw up. "Oh, yeah. I remember them."

"That's what infected people turned into, sir. The disease spread like crazy. I think half the base caught it. Things got so bad the medics had to start doubling up on the occupancy in the isolation wards--seemed like just about everyone infected got a roommate or two."

Makepeace hoped the lieutenant was exaggerating. Certainly the situation could seem that extreme from the point of view of someone who'd had to help control those afflicted. Then again, Seaton had been infected and locked up, too, apparently while the plague was in full swing. It was possible the disease had been even more widespread than he claimed. That was a depressing thought.

Seaton said, "The docs must have found a cure, though."

"Evidently." Makepeace looked around the cell, in particular eyeing the overturned bunks. "Did they just dump us in here when we, uh, got sick?"

Seaton's gaze followed his. The lieutenant made a face and shrugged. "They did their best to take care of everyone, sir, but it was pretty overwhelming. They kept sedating the victims to try to keep them from hurting themselves and each other, but the drugs never lasted very long. Clean-up was always done really quick, because no one wanted to be inside when the sedatives wore off. And besides," he added, sounding defensive, "every time you woke up you knocked the bunks over again."

Makepeace looked at him, his insecurity masked behind a well-practiced, cynical expression. He didn't remember doing that. He didn't remember a goddamn thing. "And you know that, how, Lieutenant?" The question came out sharper than he'd intended.

Seaton winced. "I was assigned to guard your isolation chamber when you first got sick, sir. Before things got so...hectic. You were one of the early ones."

Makepeace nodded wordlessly, accepting the statements at face value. He indicated his injured hands and knees, then the bloodstained wall. "I did that, too?"

"Yes, sir. You were pounding on the wall," Seaton said. "I guess you didn't like being locked up."

"Obviously not."

"I've never seen anything like it."

"It's probably just as well I don't remember it," Makepeace remarked unhappily.

"If you say so, sir."

What a nightmare. Makepeace knew he ought to be glad he was getting a few answers, but he sure didn't like what he was hearing. Not one little bit. He had done all this, behaved like a rabid beast, actually managed to hurt himself in the process, and didn't have even the faintest memory of any of it. His lack of recall was frustrating. He cast his mind back, searching. The last thing he remembered, he was in his office. Throwing a fit about Johnson. He grimaced at that. Not his best moment.

It did, however, give him an anchor point. He looked at Seaton. "Before you went primitive and got chucked in here with me, did you hear anything about Lieutenant Johnson?"

"Yes, sir. He was put in the isolation chamber next door. The last time I saw him, he was still infected. But I'm sure he's fine now."

"Oh?"

"Well, we're fine." Seaton spread his hands and shrugged. "He should be, too."

Makepeace grunted. He supposed Seaton had a point. Diseased or not, Johnson should have been safe enough, locked up in a cell, unless through some bizarre circumstance he had somehow managed to break his own neck--

Memories teased. Makepeace scowled. Why had that silly speculation returned the image of his office to his mind? Was there something else to do with Johnson, something important? He concentrated, trying to focus on his last rational--or perhaps only semi-rational--thoughts.

They came to him in jagged, knife-edged fragments. Impatience and frustration. Pacing like a caged animal. Destroying a mug and a coffeepot. A knock on his door. General Hammond and Doctor Fraiser entering his office-- A sudden burst of uncontrollable rage--

"Oh my God. I attacked Hammond and Fraiser." He scrubbed his fingers through his hair, recalling with too vivid clarity the news that had provoked his violent outburst. The room tilted with the force of that memory. "Fletcher and Dillard," he whispered.

Seaton was silent, watching him. Makepeace fixed his gaze on the lieutenant. "Hammond and Fraiser came to tell me..." He hesitated. "My other two men-- Dillard's paralyzed, and Fletcher-- Fletcher is dead. Is that a real memory, or is it just some bad dream the disease and the drugs gave me?" Please, he prayed, let it be a nightmare, a drug-induced hallucination, some sick fantasy his deranged brain had concocted out of illness or sheer perversity. Anything but reality. Please.

Seaton stared at the floor. "I'm very sorry, sir."

Makepeace gaped at him for a moment, then staggered to the opposite side of the cell and collapsed onto his own mattress. He couldn't think, couldn't feel.

Wouldn't feel.

Wouldn't allow himself to feel.

Not with a junior officer present. Senior officers weren't supposed to lose it in front of their juniors. It was unprofessional, bad for morale, made the men lose confidence.

Right.

Makepeace folded his arms over his knees and stared at the bloodstains on the wall.

It was a beautiful day.

The sky was a brilliant blue, dotted here and there with a few fluffy white clouds; the temperature mild with just a hint of a breeze. The dewdrops on the grass glittered in the morning sunlight, sparkling like diamonds. A few birds settled in the branches of a nearby tree, chirping out greetings to one another.

Makepeace gazed out over the emerald landscape, at the graceful trees planted in artistic groupings, their leaves just beginning to change color, hinting at the fiery glory to come. At the gently rolling hills. And at the thousands of white marble markers arranged in neat, orderly rows.

Every few years, his various assignments permitting, Makepeace made a pilgrimage to Arlington National Cemetery to visit old friends and comrades. There were too many of them resting here. And now there was one more.

He sighed, looking down at the rectangle of bare earth. It stood out against the clipped lawn like a scar. A government-issue headstone marked the head of the narrow plot, lined up precisely with all the other headstones in the overlong row of graves.

In a few months the grass would grow in, and Derrick Fletcher's final resting place would be indistinguishable from all the others.

From far off came the thunder of a rifle volley, then the clear, pure tones of a bugler playing "Taps." A melancholy echo of the military service Makepeace had attended yesterday afternoon. He'd stood with Fletcher's family, friends, and fellow Marines, listened to the chaplain, to the rifles, to the bugler. Watched in solemn silence as Fletcher's mother received the burial flag.

He wondered, not for the first time, what Fletcher's family made of the circumstances involved. He knew they had been fed the perfunctory and rather facile "training accident" explanation--which from all appearances they had been canny enough to pretend they believed--and handed an urn.

The family hadn't been happy about that--they didn't believe in cremation and it was so noted in Fletcher's file.

However, Makepeace knew they'd been lucky to get any remains at all to plant in the ground. Not with that damned alien virus in Fletcher's body. Cremated was the only way the government would release it.

Not that the family knew that. They just thought it was a typical government screw-up, that the body had been cremated by mistake. They had complained, and the Marine Corps had apologized profusely for the error.

The family probably wouldn't try to sue.

Makepeace was actually a little surprised that the body had been released at all, incinerated or not. He figured there was a whole gaggle of government scientists who would give their eyeteeth to study it.

Cynically, he wondered if any part of the cremated remains buried in the grave belonged to Fletcher. He didn't really want to think too hard about that; it was too ignoble an end for a good Marine. Nonetheless he couldn't help wondering: Was it possible to do genetic testing on cremated remains, or was all the DNA destroyed by the tremendous heat of the cremation process? He didn't know, and in any case he wasn't going to give Fletcher's family any ideas.

It was just as well Arlington allowed folks to bury the ashes. It was a lot more trouble to exhume a grave than to pull an urn out of a niche in a crematorium. Some things were better left as mysteries.

His thoughts drifted to his other teammates. He hadn't known them long, but they had worked well together and understood one another. Johnson hadn't been seriously injured, thank God, but Dillard would never walk again. Fraiser had confirmed that miserable fact not long after the crisis--the epidemic--had passed. Bitterly, Makepeace wondered which of his men had gotten the worse deal: Fletcher or Dillard.

Then again, Makepeace thought he knew which end he would prefer, were such a horrific choice offered him, and it didn't involve a wheelchair. Even if it meant ending up dissected in some secret government lab.

He sighed, and turned away from the grave to gaze at the gently rolling hills. He might still end up on a slab in a laboratory somewhere, or perhaps an even worse fate awaited him. With this program, who could say? Everyone involved might be dead in a year, of another extraterrestrial disease, of alien invasion or experimentation, or simply of good, old-fashioned violence. Or perhaps of some hazard no one had even thought of yet.

He'd always believed that everything he'd done and experienced in his long career, all the death, all the violence and pain, had been worth something in the end, had made a difference to his family, his country, even his world. He'd never have stayed in the Corps if he hadn't.

Was the Stargate program worth that same level of effort and commitment and belief? Did it have a chance in hell of being successful? He hoped so. He prayed that all the sacrifice it demanded, all the deaths he could already foresee, wouldn't be for nothing. That somehow the Earth could be kept free of the Goa'uld, that humanity wouldn't end up enslaved by those monstrous overlords.

He knew he'd do whatever he could, sacrifice anything, to further that goal, to protect his world, to be certain that the efforts of his comrades--all his comrades, past and present--weren't in vain.

He only hoped it would be enough.

February, 2003

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