The Stranger Within
written by Tiffany May Harrsch

Back to previous part.

Cloy was surprised to find the cats leading them back to the rock strip. But not so surprised to find the mouth of a large cave at it's base. There were cats sunning on the rocks and field around the entrance, and a couple laying in the trees. It looked to Cloy as if a entire tribe was living here.

The cat in the lead bellowed something that sent everyone on the ground running, most away from the cave. The cat in the tree swung down, using it's limbel paws to grasp a branch, hang a moment, then let go. True to form, it landed on all fours. It preceded the cats carrying Murphy into the cave.

The first thing Cloy noticed upon entering was how warm it was kept. Followed immediately by an odor, not unpleasant, that was vaguely familiar but which he could not place.

Just inside the entrance, McGarrah paused, causing Cloy and Douglas, still supported between them, to stop. His jaw dropped as he stared wide-eyed at the sand colored interior. His color almost matched Douglas's - pasty and looking ready to drop.

"How could we have missed this?" Douglas breathed.

Aside from the fact that it was in an enormous cave? Cloy had no notion. The sand colored walls that crisscrossed around them were too straight and the angles where they met too precise to be natural. The cave had been used to shelter the surest sign of civilization - buildings. Cloy could see three such building from where he stood, and a fourth further on towering over them with a second story. He took a second look around and wondered if the cave was a natural occurrence or if it had been created as well.

The cats that had been surrounding them peeled off in varying directions. That left the one taking point, the four carrying Murphy, and Boss standing just behind them with an irritable tail. And the sight seers in the streets and peeking around corners.

Boss growled. McGarrah jumped, causing Douglas to groan with the jarring motion. Since none of the other cats reacted to the outburst, Cloy assumed the demanding tone was directed at them. He gave McGarrah a look and nodded toward Murphy. He gently readjusted his grip on Douglas and started forward.

Douglas grimaced but tried not to make any sounds when Cloy started and McGarrah did not.

"McGarrah!" Cloy snapped.

McGarrah swallowed hard, looked guiltily at Cloy. He muttered an apology to Douglas as he helped the injured man along.

They were led into a building next to the tall two story one. Boss moved passed them to talk to some cats in the hall. They stared at the humans a long moment, standing utterly still. Boss's tail thumped the ground hard and it hissed at them. They ran down the hall, took a left turn. The cats in charge of Murphy followed, at a slow pace, still careful not to jar the unconscious man.

They stopped near the end of the hall, just behind the cats carrying Murphy. The ones bearing the litter did not appear tired or winded as they held the cloth and it's occupant off the ground.

"What's going on?" McGarrah asked softly.

"Don't know," Cloy answered in the same tones.

Boss apparently had the same question. It pushed past them, delicately side stepped Murphy, and half disappeared inside a hole in the wall. It's tail thumped again, then stilled. It backed out, it's head lowered and it's ears flopping forward but not quite flattened.

Moments later, a group of cats exited the room, one being pushed on a wheeled contraption with connections for various devices at the head and foot. The one on the gurney looked terrible, with scars on it's fur, tubes running off it's body, and a bandage on it's tail and at varying places along it's body.

Cloy frowned. They were in a hospital. He hoped they didn't intend to work on the humans. Though Murphy and Douglas sorely needed the medical attention, he was afraid the cats might cause further harm - unintentionally or otherwise.

The gurney, it's occupant, and attendants disappeared around another corner. From that same corner a few others appeared pushing carts into the room. When one stopped to gawk at the humans, Boss glowered and hissed at it. Hair half raised, it scampered inside.

Cleaning crew?

A short wait later, all but one left, taking their gear with them. The one who had stopped to stare remained to do something to a panel by the door. By this time, Cloy had warily maneuvered himself close enough to see what was going on.

A clear partition slid down from the ceiling without a sound. Inside, white mist flooded the room, giving off prismatic colors where it reflected the light from the hall. It swirled a few minutes, and started to turn transparent before it was sucked back up. Looker's gaze kept sliding from the misting to SG 7. The room cleared and a buzzer somewhere dinged. Looker's attention snapped back toward the door.

From it's seated position, it touched the paneling in several spots. The door silently slid up. It rumbled something while looking at Boss, who repeated the sentiment to the cats holding Murphy. As they passed through the doorway, they were sprayed by a fine white mist similar to what the room had been doused in. The cats bore the treatment without so much as a flinch. It started to bring Murphy back to consciousness with a whimper. The cats carefully laid their burden - cloth, human and all - on a low dais. Cloy supposed it was a cat version of a bed. As they left, they were again sprayed by the mist.

Boss growled something at them, they surrounded the rest of SG 7. Cloy looked at each of the guard cats, then returned Boss's gaze. He didn't need a spoken language to understand what it wanted.

"Okay, okay," he muttered. He moved back to Douglas, positioned himself to act again as a human crutch.

The mist was room temperature, and the source of the vague, though permeating odor he had detected earlier. Antiseptics and/or disinfectants. Can't be a hospital without them, even an alien one. The misting was light, not enough to soak them, but it also burned a bit where it touched skin. And more where it touched wounds, from the look on Douglas's face.

They settled Douglas against the far wall. It was painted with a beautiful rendition of the river and rock out crop, their camp site minus the camp.

"Captain," McGarrah whispered, his eyes on something behind him.

Cloy slowly straightened from getting Douglas seated and turned around. Boss and Looker had followed them in. Two of the guard cats stood just outside the wide doorway. Looker moved uncomfortably close to McGarrah.

"McGarrah."

"I'm not moving," McGarrah offered unsteadily. His eyes followed Looker, and his fists were balled at his sides. But he didn't move except to breathe. If McGarrah got any whiter, he'd be transparent.

Looker moved away from him and toward Cloy, it's bronze eyes intent. Getting no reaction from him, it positioned itself immediately before Douglas and sat.

Douglas looked from it to Cloy and back again. "Does it want to be petted?" he asked shakily. The response got a nervous chuckle from McGarrah.

It looked him up and down and harrumphed something to Boss. Looker raised a paw, hesitated, then reached out to Douglas's vest. It found the radio. Looker had apparently seen snaps before, or maybe the cats had an analog. Douglas held his breath as it undid the snap and snagged the radio with it's four fingered paw. It looked at the radio quizzically, then handed it over to Boss. Boss took it with two whacks of it's tail on the ground.

Looker stood and backed away. Douglas let out an explosive sigh of relief, loud enough to cause Looker's ears to twitch in his direction. It didn't turn back, however. Instead, it went to Murphy's side and inspected him.

"Hey, Doc."

Cloy exchanged a look of surprise with Douglas and McGarrah. Murphy was awake.

"Hope you got some painkillers," Murphy muttered. "It didn't hurt the last time I saw you."

Looker's ears twitched. It backed up a step and sat. Looking over it's shoulder to Boss, it let out of spat of what sounded more like grunts than growls.

"Yeah, water sounds good." Murphy interrupted the cats. He chuckled, then groaned. "Been ages since I've had a good drink."

Looker's ears twitched and it's eyes came back to rest on Murphy. It continued to talk to Boss.

Cloy took the opportunity to carefully inch his way to the other side of Murphy's pallet. Murphy blinked up at him without recognition. With a furrowed brow, he turned to gaze at Looker.

Looker finally finished it's yak and Boss slipped out of the room.

"Bandages?" Murphy asked, slightly out of breath. "Aren't you going to patch me up yourself?"

Looker's head turned so that it looked at Murphy with just one eye.

Murphy sighed and closed his eyes. "No. I guess not with the way I look now."

Cloy stooped down to touch Murphy's head. Was he feverish already? Possible if one could get cat scratch fever from an alien cat. However, Murphy's skin felt clammy instead of hot. He wondered if the cats attempt at decontamination worked well, or if it worked on an open wound. Perhaps Murphy was having a reaction to it, getting his people mixed up with the cats because of it.

He glanced over to Douglas and McGarrah. Douglas was not having any problems keeping with reality.

Boss returned with several attendants pushing carts into the room. Everything on the carts was sealed against the doorway misting. They were pushed to the foot of Murphy's bed and left there as everyone left. Boss and Looker paused outside to rumble to themselves. Looker did something to the paneling and the transparent door slid down, locking the humans in.

The cats outside deserted SG 7 to the room. Not quite ready to know what to think or how to feel, the team just looked at each other in silence.

Eyes still closed, Murphy broke the quiet with a complaint. "That stuff always makes my nose itch." He punctuated the remark by rubbing the offending appendage.

"It is irritating," Cloy allowed.

"Worse when your nostrils are pointed right up at the source."

The comment elicited a snort from McGarrah and a brief smile from Douglas. Maybe Murphy wasn't as bad off as he looked if he was bemoaning a minor irritation when he had other issues that should have been shouting at him. It almost made Cloy feel better.

"Ok, you stay there and tell your nose to play nice." Murphy gave him a wan smile.

"McGarrah."

McGarrah's eyes were on the transparent door and empty hall. Cloy thought he'd better give the sergeant something to do - keep him useful and help keep his mind off the cats that obviously terrified him.

"McGarrah!" He hated putting that tone on, but it seemed to be the only way to get through to the man.

McGarrah finally looked up.

"See what they left us," he nodded toward the cars," and take inventory of anything that might be useful to getting us out of here."

McGarrah didn't answer but slowly pushed himself away from the far wall.

"And me?" Douglas offered half heartedly.

"You and Murphy can act as the peanut gallery this time around."

"Gee, thanks, Captain."

"Your welcome, Lieutenant," Cloy answered in the same tone.

Cloy inspected the room they were in, starting with the door. It was wide enough for three or four cats to enter side by side, which made sense if this was really a hospital. They'd need room for the gurney and aids and machines to pass through. It was also somewhat low. He would have had to duck his head to pass through. He could not find a handle or similar paneling that Looker had used to open it. The door was well and solidly closed.

Cloy slid his hand down the seams. "This is stupid," he muttered to himself. "What good is having a door on a room if you can't get it opened.?"

"They locked us in?" Murphy actually sounded surprised.

"Yes, they locked us in," McGarrah said not very understandingly.

"But the doors are only used if…"

Cloy looked back, caught Douglas's gaze. His eyes reflected the same this he was feeling, worry and confusion.

"Isolation," Murphy finished his sentence quietly. "For disease, or criminals, or dangerous animals." Judging from his tone, Murphy thought all of the above applied. Maybe it did.

"Well," Cloy said, uncomfortably, "we can't get out from there."

"No," Murphy agreed.

Cloy turned back to the door. Ok, that was a no go. Maybe something with the walls.

He walked the perimeter, alternately running his hand along them and pounding. They felt like adobe stucco, only finer. The walls looked like compressed sand, and they were also very hard. There was only a dull thud when he pounded on them, and they had no give at all.

The ceiling appeared to made of the same stuff, but it was too high to reach, even using Murphy's platform. Tubes and spigots sprouted from the walls near the ceiling. Cloy guessed the cats didn't want the chance of anyone getting into the devices that doused the room with disinfectants. Perhaps they were too toxic when in such concentration?

Except for the painted wall and the tubing above, everything was the same sand color. He thought the color must be like white is to humans - neutral.

Cloy kicked the dirt with disgust. "Looks like we'll have to dig our way out."

"It's only soft on top," Murphy answered.

"He's right." Douglas motioned to his half buried foot. More of the hard sand-like stone was below.

Why dirt, he wondered. Wouldn't that be, well, dirty? Unless the sterilization worked with the flooring too.

"McGarrah, what have you got?"

"Water."

"What?"

McGarrah lifted his hands in a shrug. "They left water, bandaides, and something that smells bad."

"Antibiotics," Murphy breathed. "They'll bring more if we use it all."

So, the cats didn't trust themselves to patch the humans up either, eh? At least they left the supplies for them. What ever was going on in those big furry heads, the carts said that they did not wish SG 7 further harm. Cloy hoped.

L* L * L * L

Daniel was out of breath when he reached the clearing. He had nearly lost his way when the screaming stopped and the shots ceased. Now, gasping for breath, he stared at the flattened grass and the two spots of mud on the otherwise dry earth.

It was a mistake, he wanted to holler. Cloy didn't want any trouble from the denizens of PJ4912. He certainly would not have let anyone harm children. It must have been a misunderstanding. If he had only been there, Daniel could have told them that. Maybe even prevent the images that came to mind at the sight of the blood soaked ground.

But he had let his mind go in useless circles because of his hand. He had fallen behind and even stopped altogether. And now he was too late.

Daniel blinked at the clearing. No. He refused to accept the notion. Someone must have only been injured. They would have left the dead here. Why take the human dead to the Stargate? They wouldn't do that, would they? Definitely not this early.

Stop it! One of these days his mind would actually obey his orders. It seemed that this would not be the day. Think straight! Right. And he needed to walk straight. And when he got back to the Stargate, he had damn well better talk straight.

He took a moment to get his bearings. There was a path through the grass heading back toward the outcrop. Wrong direction to go, unless they took SG 7 that way. But he was one man with something going wrong with his head. Daniel didn't trust himself enough to think he could rescue the team on his own.

So that meant going the other direction. If he ran far enough, he should run right into the 'gate. Daniel stayed in the field, ignoring the tall grass that kept trying to trip him up. He felt he needed a clear sighting of where he had been - this would be a spectacularly wrong time to go in circles.

He stumbled, caught himself, and stumbled again when he couldn't control a cough. He took a moment to get control of his breathing before gaining his feet. Daniel nearly fell again when his right ankle twisted under him. He caught himself and took a cautious, testing step. He was fine until he tried to put weight on it, his foot tried to slip out from under him. He gently probed the ankle. Daniel doubted it was broken or merely twisted; there was no evidence of swelling and absolutely no pain.

Gritting his teeth, Daniel pushed himself to his feet and stumbled on. He tried to ignore the thought that the disease was progressing far too quickly. He didn't have time to be going there again. He concentrated instead on hurrying to the Stargate and getting help. Before he really was too late.

L* L * L * L

"I should be dead."

"Don't even talk that way," Douglas demanded.

"No, you don't understand." Murphy looked at each of them in confusion. "Neither do I," he admitted. "But I remember dying."

Cloy exchanged looks with McGarrah and Douglas. "You're badly injured in that attack. But you didn..."

"No." Murphy closed his eyes, exhaustion evident in his features. "Before... Before you came here."

"Say, what?" McGarrah muttered.

"He thought he was protecting the children, that's why he attacked you."

Silence followed as SG 7 tried to understand what Murphy was telling them. Some of it made sense to Cloy. Protection seemed a valid, and understandable, reason for the attack. The creatures weren't wild animals, after all. But this business of having died before… Sure, maybe if it was Jackson speaking. But Murphy?

Maybe it was the pain speaking. Cloy almost hoped so. He didn't want to see his men in pain or sick, but either were preferable to the possibility of an illness of another sort. Cloy sighed.

"Look, Murphy.."

"No."

The firm, no nonsense denial caught Cloy by surprise. What was he 'no'ing? He didn't know how to respond to it

Douglas, however, had an idea.

"Who are you?"

An outrageous idea. If Murphy's 'no' threw him, then Douglas's question outright confused him.

"Huh?" McGarrah had the same nonexistent clue.

Murphy turned to stare intently at Douglas. "I cannot pronounce my name with this body."

"Do you know what those creatures are?" Douglas gestured vaguely at the transparent door.

"Those 'creatures' are my people."

"And the… cubs you were playing with?"

"Not playing. Talking."

"Talking?" Cloy parroted, his skepticism speaking before he could check it.

"I didn't know them. I asked if they knew my children."

"You don't have children." Cloy told himself to shut up.

A proud smile graced Murphy's face. "I have four." The smile faded to worry. "My youngest is ill. He has the same disease I did."

"I don't understand," McGarrah whined softly.

Neither did Cloy. How could Murphy's voice contain such pure grief for a delusion? Could a fever make him believe he had children that much? Could infection make him feel such pain for a child that never was? Cloy shook his head. He was missing something important here.

Douglas and Murphy never broke eye contact. Douglas was catching that something he and McGarrah were missing. Cloy could see it in the intensity of Douglas's gaze.

"Talk how?" Douglas broke into the pause.

Murphy blinked and frowned.

"Talk like we are now?" Douglas elaborated.

"Speech? No." One shaking hand touched his throat. "Words don't come out right."

"Then how."

"I'm dead," Murphy started with an hysterical chuckle, "not stupid. I can remember how to write."

Douglas gave Cloy a quick glance. He had an idea.

"Can you do it again?"

"Yes." Pause. "Why?"

"Could you… write something to them, maybe? Tell them we meant no harm. That we need to go home."

Cloy studied the sand brown ceiling and mentally bit his tongue. Now half his team was acting crazy.

"Yes," Murphy breathed as the idea sunk in. "Maybe I am stupid."

He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and rolled on to his side. Cloy winced at the grunts Murphy tried not to make.

"Whoa. Easy, there." He put a restraining hand on Murphy's shoulder. "You're in no condition to be moving like that."

"Captain. Sir."

Cloy braced himself for the argument he could hear coming.

"We should at least let him try. What've we got to lose?"

Cloy detested 'what do we have to lose' situations. He hated not having a better idea to try.

He helped Murphy to a sitting position. Murphy's face was a master of contortion, yet he made no sound, as if being helped put an end to his voice. Half way to the door, Murphy's working leg went out and nearly put them both on the floor. He muttered an apology to Cloy as he regained his balance. By the time Cloy got him seated leaning against the door, some of Murphy's wounds had started to bleed again.

Cloy waited for Murphy to catch his breath before trying to attract the attention of their captors.

Two of the cat like creatures passed them in the hall. One stared at the humans the entire way. A gentle swat from it's companion saved it from walking into a wall. He could just see a doorway down the hall with two tails sticking out.

Cloy took a fortifying breath and rapped loudly on the door. The two who had just passed sprang back into view. They stood well back from the door and stared wide-eyed at SG 7. The fur on the shorter one rippled spasmodically.

The relative lack of reaction irritated Cloy. Was everyone told to stay away from them, or something?

Murphy stared out the door with such yearning that Cloy felt bad for him, and wasn't sure what he was feeling that way for.

"That one's so scared he's about to bolt any minute now."

"The shivering one?" Cloy asked the question to distract himself from the look in Murphy's eyes. The intensity of it was as unnerving as the grief had been.

"No. She's scared, but she's still moving, sensing." Murphy was confident in his assessment of these creatures. "He's the one who's frozen. He's not even blinking."

Blinking? The thing wasn't even breathing. Scared, eh? An evil thought came to mind. Cloy put it into action before he could check the impulse.

"Hey!" he hollered, pounding on the door. Even Murphy jumped. "We want to talk to someone in here!"

The still cat jumped a foot backward. It opened it's mouth wide, bearing sharp teeth. The otherwise menacing gesture was spoiled by the sound it made. Instead of the expected roar, it gave a squeaky hiss which had no more force than a kitten's. If their situation had been different, Cloy would have fallen down with laughter. The cat ran, backwards, down the hall.

Cloy felt a perverse sense of satisfaction - served them right for attacking and scaring his people. It didn't matter to Cloy if that particular cat had had any part in the incident or not.

The reaction of the other one could not have been more different. It's fur went still as it froze for a moment. Then every hair on it's body stood straight up, giving it an almost comical, finger in the light socket look. Even it's tail pointed at the ceiling, the tuft at the tip fanned out. It's ears flattened, folding forward to cover it ear holes. The tips of each ear touched the corners of it's eyes.

This time the pounds and shouts brought more cats. The hall filled with them, crowding together against the opposite wall. No one ventured near their two legged 'guests'.

The fur on most of the cats moved in uncoordinated patches. One stood nearly as frozen as the other had, only it's tail twitched nervously up and down. A small one, only about the size of a dog, stumbled to the one with the puffed fur. Not taking it's eyes of the humans, Puff-fur growled softly at the little one. Little One stopped, but did not move away.

There was something not right with the cub. One leg dragged when it walked. It's tail, though short, did not so much as twitch. The fur on one side hung limp, and the ear on the opposite side looked unnaturally flat against it's small head.

A choked sob brought Cloy's attention back to his people.

"Murphy?"

Murphy's eyes were glued on Little One, sorrow shining through unshed tears. The cub gazed back, seeming the calmest of the whole lot.

"The child doesn't have long," Murphy breathed.

"What?"

"He's here because he has the disease. Soon he won't be able to walk anymore. Then he won't be able to move anymore." Bitterness laced Murphy's voice now. "After that he won't be able to live anymore."

Puff-fur's hair flattened a bit. It stepped to the side and put itself between the cub and the humans. Cloy found the protective maneuver too human for his liking.

Some cats in the back started rumbling. Puff-fur glanced their direction and growled. One of the group left. The rest continued - Cloy supposed it was talking - to each other. The growling grew louder, less controlled, as if the discussion was turning into an argument. Puff-fur glared at the them and put an end to the distraction with a loud hiss.

Puff-fur finally approached them. It's big head moved to take in each of the humans, starting with Murphy and working it's way around to settle on Cloy.

"Captain."

The voice startled Cloy. "What?"

"Writing," Douglas reminded him.

Murphy was already ahead of them. He scribbled lines into the soft dirt, muttering to himself. He stopped, cursed, and wiped it out with a shaking hand.

"Have to face the letters toward them," he explained.

Murphy leaned heavily against the door. It was not the spark of intelligence that brightened his eyes so much. Cloy fervently hoped this worked. He didn't know how long Murphy would last without professional medical attention.

"Need four fingers," Murphy added, holding up his right hand and it's two half curled, motionless fingers.

He grunted as he adjusted himself to 'write' with his left hand He put a similar marking on the dirt. It was much neater than before and turned sideways.

Puff-fur looked at it a moment. It's ears lifted to stand straight up. It's head turned to regard Murphy in a bird like manner, first with one eye, then the other. It lifted a paw larger than Cloy's hand and scratched something into the dirt.

Murphy wiped the dirt clean and made new designs. It went on back and forth like that for several silent minutes. Murphy became ever more despondent, the cat thing became increasingly agitated.

Finally, the big cat put a halt to the proceedings by raking it's claws through the dirt and the writing. Murphy closed his eyes in resignation.

"What's going on?" Douglas asked.

Murphy snorted softly. "She thinks the words are a trick. She refuses to believe I understand what I'm writing."

Well, Cloy and Puff-fur agreed on one thing, at least. Not that it did them a lot of good.

Puff-fur turned it's back to them and rejoined the group pressed against the wall. Little One continued to sit apart from it's kind, solemnly watching Cloy look at it.

Cloy found himself wishing Shorty were here. She loved to chat and adored cats. This would have been the perfect mission for her. But she was lost somewhere on that damn planet, probably rotting under earthquake caused rubble like the one that had killed Colonel James.

Fine time to be thinking about them, idiot.

The mental scolding didn't help. It just changed the longing to Jackson being with them. At least that one was not impossible. Maybe the scientist, with all those languages rattling around in his head, could tell Cloy if there was any hope to what Murphy had tried. Or if it was really as ridiculous as Cloy thought it was.

Cloy sighed inwardly. Ridiculous or not, the cat things were intelligent creatures. And they were obviously prepared to ignore one of his people.

"Hey! Fur ball!" He pounded on the door.

Several in the group backed away. Little One didn't even flinch, it's eyes merely widened at Cloy's noise. Puff-fur's ears flattened again as it looked over it's shoulder.

"Yeah, you," he shouted, giving the door an extra hard punch. "Come here. We need to talk to you."

Cloy felt foolish waving Puff-fur over and pointing at the ground. He knelt, drew a rough circle in the dirt and pointed at it again.

The cat deigned to take a closer look. It glanced at the circle, then regarded Cloy with each eye.

He wasn't getting through. He searched the ceiling for inspiration. He was surprised to catch Puff-fur looking up as well.

Cloy pointed again at the circle. He drew a smaller one with lines coming off it; the best he could manage for the DHD. Then he pointed at himself, swept his arm to take in the members of his team, and 'walked' his fingers from the circle.

That got a reaction. Puff-fur's fur rose straight up, it's eyes narrowed. It's growl sent most of the contingent of cats running.

Cloy stood slowly. "Ok. I take it they don't like the Stargate."

"Not the Circle. We use that."

Cloy watched the remaining upset cats and let Douglas take over the role of believer.

"They know how to work the Stargate?"

"Yes."

"So what's the problem?"

"A fairy tale. There are no such thing as two legged creatures." Murphy apparently forgot he was a two legged creature himself.

The soft growling outside became louder. The hair stood up on all of the verbal combatants as their argument escalated.

Murphy, eyes still closed, grimaced. "She doesn't believe in you. One wants to study you."

There was a choked off noise from the back of the room. McGarrah was uncharacteristically silent and very pale.

Being 'studied', with all the nuances of the word, did not to appeal to Cloy, either. The thought of being taken apart by aliens made him nauseous. It was bad enough being physically poked and mentally prodded by their own people every time they returned through the Stargate.

Puff-fur hissed and swatted at one of the remaining cats. They all left down the hall in a hurry, leaving only Little One behind. That one continued to stare at them.

"Ah, no," Murphy whispered. "They're going to get…" he paused. "You would call her a political leader. She's not friendly. And the head of this medical facility. I never met him."

Little One stumbled toward the door. It left a trail of gouged dirt behind it, a testament to it's lame leg. It's nose touched the door before it abruptly sat. It titled it's head to peer at Murphy in that curious bird-like manner. It made a noise that was more rough purr than growl.

Murphy opened his eyes to regard the small creature. "Yes," he murmured. He reached to the cleared dirt to draw a couple of parallel lines.

"What did it ask?" Douglas asked.

"He wanted to know if I have the same affliction he does."

Little One and Murphy regarded each other in silence for a moment. Then Murphy straightened, a new light in his eyes.

"Murphy?"

Cloy shared Douglas's wariness. He wished he knew what Murphy was up to.

Murphy frantically scratched at the dirt. Twice he wiped the writing out in frustration. What finally came out was much simpler than what he drew for Puff-fur.

The cub cocked it's head to a side and gave a low response.

Murphy smiled. "You do?" he asked excitedly. "Where? How far…" He stopped, suddenly remembering that Little One couldn't understand his words. He leaned over and shakily scribbled more in the dirt.

"What's going on, Murphy?"

"He knows about my youngest," Murphy said breathlessly. "He's met my son."

A low rumble heralded Puff-fur's return. It's fur was still fluffed out, and it's tail thumped the ground nearly hard enough to be heard. Cloy had the distinct impression it was angry.

Little One squeaked and whipped it's head around. In a whiny rumble-purr it seemed to be trying to explained itself. Puff-fur stalked over with another low rumble.

Murphy was definitely not happy with these actions. "Please," he murmured. He slapped the door and pointed down at his scribbles.

Puff-fur's tail hit the ground with an audible snap. It growled, and picked up Little One by the scruff of it's neck.

"No," Murphy whispered. "Please," he said, louder.

Puff-fur turned from them. Murphy managed to struggle up to his good knee.

"Murphy…"

"Stop!" Murphy shouted, pounding on the door even as he supported himself against it. "Come back!"

Puff-fur turned long enough to emit a deep throated growl that was in no way diminished by the cub held in it's mouth. Cloy suppressed a shudder at the warning.

Murphy gave a soft cry and collapsed.

The cat turned and disappeared down the hall, leaving the humans resoundingly alone.

L* L * L * L

It shouldn't have taken this long, Daniel thought when the Stargate finally came into sight. His lungs burned and one of his legs ached from taking the strain caused by hobbling on the other. The knee of his pants on the weak side had a tear in them from tripping one too many times. But there it was, the grey 'gate standing out in the field of yellowed grass. Just waiting for him to make the last few yards.

His heart nearly stopped when he saw the cats standing in the field between the DHD and the 'gate. They were the same two they had seen before… before he had gotten separated from SG 7. What were they doing here?

Daniel approached cautiously, limping as quietly as he could. They heard him anyway. The smaller stopped speaking and turned her large eyes on him. The other stood suddenly, looking as if he had just been caught doing something forbidden to him.

They allowed him to approach, doing little more than staring at him. They should have been more afraid of him. He was the alien here after all. She gazed at him with curiosity, he with caution.

Daniel reached the DHD and leaned against it, trying to catch his breath.

She squinted at him, rumbled a question to her companion.

"Activating the 'gate," Daniel muttered absently. He stopped mid-press of the second symbol. Was he actually answering the cat?

Alarmed at his actions, she struggled to her feet. The male cat growled warningly.

"No." He pressed the third symbol. "I have to get help."

With the fourth symbol came excruciating pain.

I'm not dead!

Daniel's hands flew to his head, the left flopping uselessly as he tried to press the scream out.

Of course he wasn't dead.

But if he wasn't dead, what was he doing at…

Getting help!

It was like doing battle with a terrified alter ego, only within his own mind. Daniel got the upper hand long enough to hit the fifth and sixth glyphs. The pain redoubled, adding to it a deep fear. His knees buckled.

Fighting the part of him screaming that to open the Stargate meant death, Daniel shakily pushed the last symbol for home. Squeezing his eyes shut, Daniel rested his head on his arm a moment before pulling himself to his feet.

Now both cats were growling at him. Jack declared him crazy and threatened him. Jack? Through the pain and the conflicting ideas, Daniel was not very certain of his own sanity.

Becky - was it really Becky? - reminded him that it was barely even noon, much less sunset. She was trying to talk sense into him. Right now, nothing made sense.

He slapped the crystal with his right hand. There, it was done. A few more minutes and he could get help. Of more kinds than one.

The grey stone started turning. Becky squeaked. Jack yelped and pushed her out of the way as the 'gate came to life.

Daniel entered the iris code in a hurry. He didn't want to stay here any longer than he had to. His head hurt too much. He hobbled toward the glittering pool of the event horizon, a portion of his mind reminding him again that he wasn't dead yet.

Becky yelled at him to stop. Then at Jack to stop him. She was horrified, believing he was trying to send himself to the next world while still alive.

The part of him that came with the blinding headache proclaimed that he was not ready yet.

Well, he was.

Daniel never made it. With the pale light of the Stargate as close as the platform, he was suddenly hit from behind. His chest impacted with the steps hard enough to knock the breath out of him. And the mental battle culminated with enough force to knock the consciousness from him.

L* L * L * L

"Incoming wormhole!"

Startled, General Hammond turned toward the window to the Stargate room. The next return was not due for another two hours.

"Do we have a signal?"

"Not... Here it is," the technician interrupted herself. "It's SG-1, sir."

"Open the iris." Not that he really needed to give the command. Her fingers were flying over the keyboard even as she informed him who it was.

Out the window, they watched as the iris slid open. Then waited, wondering if there was something wrong. Again.

Hammond glanced down at the technician, who gave him a nervous, if confused, smile. No one had come through the wormhole yet.

Minutes inched by. The Stargate deactivated. SG 1 never came through.

He stood a moment, holding his breath, hoping whichever of SG 1's number had sent the signal would dial up and send again.

"Sir?" The technician looked up expectantly.

"Give them five minutes to try back. Then dial up P2J459. They're closest to check in time."

"Yes, sir." She started programming the computers to be ready the second the allotted five minutes was up.

"Off world activation!"

Hammond checked the clock. A little more than a minute left.

"SG 1 signal, sir." The tech sounded as relieved as he wanted to feel.

"Open the iris."

"We're getting a signal. It's Major Carter, sir."

"Put it up."

Carter's face appeared on the screen with a smile. "Good morning, sir." Before she could go any further, Hammond asked if she had sent the stray signal.

"No, sir. Teal'c and I have been busy making friend with the natives." The amusement left her blue eyes as the unusual question sank in. "Why? What's happened, sir?"

There was a heavy as pause after he filled her in. Frown lines creased her brow. He had definitely ruined her morning. "Have you contacted the Colonel or Daniel?"

"They are next, Major. Consider yourselves on standby."

"Understood, sir."

Contacting Colonel O'Neill proved to be ridiculously easy, despite the initial fumbling of his trainees.

O'Neill scowled at him from the monitor. "Has everyone else reported in?"

"No one has missed a check-in yet. I have already contacted Major Carter and Teal'c. They have no knowledge of the signal. And if it did not come from you…"

"That leaves Daniel," O'Neill finished grimly. "Sir, request permission to…"

"Granted." Hammond expected the response. "In the event that the signal came from Dr. Jackson and we can not establish communication with him or SG 7, I'll expect you and your team to be ready to ship out with  
SG 3."

"Thank you, sir. O'Neill, out."

"Stargate deactivated."

Hammond stared at the empty the Stargate with a sinking feeling. He took a deep breath. "Dial up PJ4912."

As he watched the rings turn, Hammond spoke a silent prayer for the third time that the lonesome signal was merely a mechanical fluke and not something worse.

L* L * L * L

Cloy paced the room, seething at himself and their situation. He kicked the door the third time he passed it.

Douglas looked at him sympathetically. "We'll be alright," he said, "all of us." He sounded like he believed it.

"Of course we will." He hoped he sounded as confident.

He hated not being able to do something, anything, to get them out of there. He couldn't find a way out of this room. He couldn't communicate with the cats. He couldn't keep his people together and well. He couldn't even keep morale up. Some commander he was turning out to be.

Static put a halt to his steps.

"…ckson and SG 7 … lease …"

He turned around, looking for the source of the sound.

"…is … Command. Do you read?"

The faint signal was made even more so by the door and hall space separating it from it's intended ears.

Cloy moved to the transparent material of the door, silently cursing the cats for taking Douglas's radio when SG 7 was put into this room. He could just make out the door frame of the room down the hall. A cat emerged from it, stopped a moment to stare at the humans, the hair on it's body raising. It's large eyes opened impossibly wide as it let out a loud yowl. It made a neat about turn that would have put the most experienced soldier to shame, then sped down the hall.

"Repeat ...gate Command to Dr. Jackson and SG…" Static sputtered, drowning out the rest of the message.

Douglas brightened, catching the implications of the transmission right off. McGarrah, on the other hand, looked confused.

"But it's nowhere near our check in time."

Douglas frowned at him. "Don't complain. When we don't answer, they'll know something's wrong and send someone after us."

"Oh."

Cloy turned to watch the hall. He wondered what the SGC was calling for. A dozen possibilities ran through his mind, none of them good. They ranged everywhere from family emergency to national emergency, an attack of a new super bug to a Goa'uld attack. Whatever the reason, Cloy hoped the SGC would have time and people enough to send a team after them.

A group of cats crowded the door down the hall. Cloy could make out the rumps and tails of several bodies. The rumbles carried well as they talked amongst themselves. No doubt they were discussing how strange the human technology was, or wondering how they could fit a person into such a small box, or trying to decipher just what was being said.

Cloy sighed. There was another implication to the transmission - through exactly what had been said. The SGC was calling SG 7 and Dr. Jackson. Which meant Jackson never made contact with them.

Cloy looked at Murphy, exhausted, seriously injured, and still insisting he was something other than human. To Douglas, who would have been hurt worse if Murphy hadn't tried that stupid stunt. And McGarrah, who's color has yet to return as he kept himself as far from door and the cats as possible.

Jackson had better be dead or injured, Cloy thought angrily. If he found out otherwise, Cloy would personally throttle him for leaving them here.

L* L * L * L

Continued on the next part....

© 2000 The characters mentioned in this story are the property of Showtime and Gekko Film Corp. The Stargate, SG-I, the Goa’uld and all other characters who have appeared in the series STARGATE SG-1 together with the names, titles and backstory are the sole copyright property of MGM-UA Worldwide Television, Gekko Film Corp, Glassner/Wright Double Secret Productions and Stargate SG-I Prod. Ltd. Partnership. This fanfic is not intended as an infringement upon those rights and solely meant for entertainment. All other characters, the story idea and the story itself are the sole property of the author.

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