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SURVIVAL OF THE FITTEST Stargate SG-1 - 07 Sabine C. Bauer (An Undead Scan v1.0)

To Tanya—beta extraordinaire and the one who’s responsible for Everything!

PROLOGUE

The childlike face—she’d been a child, first and foremost, a smart, needy, tantrumthrowing teenager who’d made an awful mistake—never moved Jack reached for her neck as if to feel a pulse they both knew had never been there. It wasn’t the pulse he was after, Daniel realized Below her right ear a hidden catch activated and released the energy cell that had powered her. The crystal fizzed briefly and winked out, looking dull and dead its removal a clear case of overkill. Nothing would revive her now. After all, Jack O’Neill, ex-Special Ops, was a crack shot. “You stupid son of a bitch!” “Hey, you’re welcome.” Daniel wanted to hit him, for the glib reply alone. Someone up in the control room gave the all clear. The klaxons stopped their wailing, and the gate room fell quiet enough to hear the soft clickety-click and clatter as all throughout the base Reese’s ‘toys’, bereft of the life-force that had fuelled them, disintegrated to a harmless rain of metal wafers. Rain or tiny needles of snow. Daniel felt cold Another difference not made, for Reese and for an entire race of beings who were getting their little gray asses whipped by the offspring of her ‘toys’. Too many differences not made. Maybe it was time to leave. No point in staying and pretending things were just fine when everything had changed. Or perhaps nothing had changed. He heard himself start up an argument, because he was Daniel and Daniel always argued pitting the ever-same reasoning against the ever-same justifications and with the ever-same results. “Look, I’m sorry,” Jack said finally. “But this is the way it had to go down, and you know it.” Now brush your teeth and go to bed! He stopped short of that. Instead he turned away, muttering into his radio, and began walking off toward the blast door. He’d still be holding the gun, always would No difference. Daniel didn’t look up, afraid of what he’d see, of the decisions it’d force on him.

CHAPTER ONE

Convergence: The development of similar features in distantly related lineages due to the effects of similar evolutionary factors. The subject, strapped to a gleaming metal table inside a gleaming surgical lab, opened his mouth for a scream. Thankfully that particular audio channel had been set to mute. The scream was enduring and heartfelt, which didn’t come as any great surprise. Suddenly the subject’s eyes rolled up, and he stilled. The solemn face of a white-clad doctor interposed itself between camera and surgical table. The doctor shook his head. Another failure. How many had there been? Eight? Nine? It was high time to consider the alternative. Frank Simmons switched off the aftermath of the experiment and turned to the central monitor bank. Each screen showed the same image, just from a different angle. The backgrounds varied. French doors and a glimpse of a garden or pristinely starched curtains or a blank white wall. However, all of them showed bars in the foreground and, behind the bars, a man. Or what looked like a man. He was dark-haired, tall, and heavily built, and he moved with a curious absence of grace, as though mind and body hadn’t really connected. Which might be the case after all. Some of the guards called him Herman. The likeness was indisputable, but Simmons discouraged the joke. Herman Munster was a cretin. This… thing… on the screen was highly intelligent and commanded the entire knowledge and viciousness of his species. Prettifying him would be lethal. Until quite recently the man-thing had been a person called Adrian Conrad. Obscenely rich and incurably ill and unwilling to appreciate, let alone accept, the irony of it. And so he’d paid a large amount of money for a larval Goa’uld and let it infest his body. The alien parasite had cured the disease but usurped the host’s mind in exchange when the removal process had run into a hitch. Tough luck. Good luck for the NID. Thanks to Simmons, the secret government agency owned the Goa’uld exclusively. Right now, the thing that had been Conrad sat inside his cage leafing through a textbook. Genetics. Suddenly, and with all signs of disdain, he leaped from his chair and flung the book against the bars. “Where are you?” The harmonics of the distorted voice made the speakers hum. “I know you are there! I demand to speak to you!” Simmons took another bite from his sandwich—pastrami and pickle, though they made them better in New York—and watched as Conrad paced the cell. Let him stew. Sooner or later he’d grasp that he was a prisoner. Maybe he’d learn some manners then.

Ten minutes later the sandwich was gone and Conrad had stopped pacing and slumped back onto the chair. It was time. Simmons scrunched the wrapping paper into a tight ball and pitched it at a trash-can. He missed, shrugged, and left the control center. When he entered the prisoner’s room, trailed by two guards armed with zat’nikatels, Conrad straightened up, his eyes glowing. “You are late!” Ignoring him, Simmons nodded at the guards. “Unlock the cage.” Given the Goa’uld’s immense strength, it posed a risk, but it also was a psychological necessity. Remaining outside the cage would have betrayed fear. More importantly, a face-to-face meeting suggested a degree of equality that would facilitate cooperation. The ploy had worked before, it would work now. The door of the cage fell shut behind him, and Simmons picked up the book, leisurely flicked through its pages. “Not to your taste, I take it?” “It is puerile! Your so-called scientists do not know half of what they ought to know. Even the men my host employed were amateurs.” A sly glint stole into the alien’s human eyes. “You killed another one, did you not? That is why you are here. But I can only tell you what I have told you before. Your plan will fail.” “Not if you help me.” “Why should I help you? So that you can assemble an army of warriors to destroy my kind?” “Your kind?” Simmons leaned back against the bars of the cage and started laughing. “Since when did you develop feelings for the family? Your kind would kill you just as soon as look at you, and you know it.” He did, of course. For a second, the eyes flared in annoyance. Then he rose and approached until he was mere inches away, towering over Simmons. From somewhere outside the cage came the dissonant chime of zat’nikatels being readied. “Stand down!” Simmons snapped and, more quietly, added, “We’re having a friendly discussion.” The parasite molded his host’s face into a smile. “Indeed. Suppose I could help you, human, would you accept my price?” “Freedom? Not just yet. You’re a little too useful for that, I’m afraid.” “No. Not just yet.” The grimace deepened, bared teeth. “But if I give you those warriors, you are to send them against whom I tell you when I tell you.” When hell freezes over! Simmons stared past Conrad and at a strip of sunlight that dissected the white floor of the cage. The reflection was painfully bright, and he closed his eyes, hiding a flicker of triumph. It was true. The Goa’uld’s arrogance was their greatest weakness. “Why not?” he said. “With the one obvious exception, of course.” “Of course. Unfortunately, I cannot help you.” “What?” Simmons’ eyes flew open in time for him to watch Conrad back off in a show of boredom. “What do you mean, you can’t help me?” “I mean what I said. I do not have the skill. However…” “However?” It took some doing, but Simmons managed to bite back a more suitable reply. However, once he’d squeezed that punk dry, he’d kill him personally. Slowly.

“My mistress possesses the skills you require.” “Your mistress? Forgive my skepticism, but mistress implies that you do what she says, not the other way round.” “The price I have named will be ample to buy her assistance.” “I see.” Simmons allowed a trace of interest to creep into his voice. “And how would I invite your mistress to join us for negotiations?” “I assume there were communication globes among the loot you took from our worlds?” “Of course, but… What about range?” The NID’s tame Goa’uld smiled.

CHAPTER TWO

The place was vast, gutted, and its acoustics stank. Which was to say you twitched an eyelid and got an echo. Consequently, Colonel Jonathan ‘Jack’ O’Neill, USAF, wasn’t considering any twitching. What he had been considering for the past ten minutes or so was getting up and stretching his legs. His knees were very unhappy with the current state of affairs, a reminder that, maybe, he was getting a little long in the tooth for this. This spelled waddling along a metal catwalk in stealth mode and a crouch. And anyone who thought it was a piece o’ cake could be his guest and try it in combat boots. This also was the only way of getting anywhere near the enemy position. The enemy, quite unfairly, had displayed unforeseen tactical originality. Okay, not unforeseen, but Jack still felt a little insulted. Tactical originality was his department. Then again, he wasn’t doing too badly himself. The gallery lining the room fifteen meters above the ground seemed inaccessible. The staircases leading up had either collapsed or corroded to brittle red trash, and if, for some perverse reason, you had your heart set on getting up here, you were in for a stint of shinning up the side of the building, forcing a window, and carefully dislodging a bunch of loose bricks. Which they’d done—having the aforementioned perverse reason—and it had paid off. This was the last place the enemy expected them to be. You could tell. The hostiles had a three-strong sentry unit holed up amid a few dozen bales of molting white stuff. Cotton, by the looks of it, though what it was doing here beat him. Part of the enemy force was prowling the grounds outside, led on a wild goose chase by Teal’c and his team. The rest were in the building, securing a stairwell Jack wasn’t interested in. Yet. Below, Larry, Curly, and Moe felt safe as babes in arms— never a real smart proposition, in life or in warfare. It got you dead. So far none of them had bothered to check above. They’d better not. If they did, things would get ugly in a hurry. Fallback options were at a premium up here. On the bright side, even if they did check, they’d have to look closely. The windows in the two outer walls were blind, encrusted with decades of industrial dirt. The only light trickling in filtered through a handful of broken casements, and the room, nearly a hundred meters long, half as wide, and about thirty high, was mired in almost solid gloom. The enemy position sat smack in the northeastern quadrant, beautifully chosen, because it covered both ground floor entrances. Jack O’Neill wanted it. In fact, he coveted it. Once he took it, it’d be like shooting fish in a barrel. His teams would be able to pick off the hostiles as they came home to roost. A faint whiff of herbal shampoo announced that his 2IC had caught up with him. He turned, saw her grin, teeth flashing in a face blackened by camouflage paint. Then

she shucked a stray coil of the zip line back onto her shoulder and gave a thumbs-up. Evidently Major Samantha Carter was enjoying herself. He signaled her to keep going. With a brisk nod she crept on, followed by Pancaldi and four others. They did good, moving quickly and quietly, until they reached the corner where the catwalk turned along the short wall, some ten meters on from his own position. Perfect. Now all he needed was the third prong of his attack force. And there it was, right on time. Diagonally across, six ghostly shapes settled in behind the railing. Daniel and his braves had taken the other way round, with the braves gamely submitting to the command of a geek. Well, if truth be told, Dr. Daniel Jackson had lost his official geek status quite some time ago. Whether he liked it or not, he was getting good at this. Very good. Now he peered over, waiting for the signal. The Stooges down below still were blissfully oblivious. They’d have a rough awakening. Showtime. Jack raised his hand, thumb, forefinger, and middle finger extended, and slowly began to count down, folding in his thumb, three, then the forefinger, two, then— A whirr and a whoosh, five, eight, ten times over, zooming down from the ceiling. No! Goddammit, no! He felt himself go ice-cold, knowing what he’d done in one terrible instant, knowing that he’d pulled the screwup to end them all—the same dumbass stunt as the Three Stooges. He hadn’t bothered to check above, because he’d felt too damn sure of himself and his brilliance. It’d make a great epitaph: Here lies Jack O’Neill, Smug Bastard. And not just he. Not just he… “Take cover!” he roared. Too little, too late. Besides, there wasn’t any cover to be had. Black-clad and masked, they hovered on their zip lines like so many giant spiders, and they moved with the same eerie speed, instantly opening fire. Like a mad lightshow, the thin red streaks of laser sights crisscrossed through dust-laden air, hit walls and struts and bodies. One drilled toward him, and Jack rolled away, brought up his own weapon, fired, missed. Somewhere behind him rose a cry. Chen. Chen was down, his group of five a man short now, and it was only the start. Chances were he’d lose them all. The red streak swiveled back, still searching for him, then it went wild. Daniel had taken out the shooter. Go, Daniel! Giving up on the non-existent cover, Jack got to his feet, found another target, and had the satisfaction of seeing the man sag into his harness. Next! By now there was a fairly constant barrage from Carter’s corner. She and her group took out three attackers in quick succession. Daniel’s gang clocked up two more. If they could keep it up then maybe, just maybe— “Stevens!” he shouted back over his shoulder. “Get the lines ready! We’re going down a floor.” “Yessir! On your—” Stevens toppled as the wall burst outward. It did the same thing in two other places, behind Carter’s and Daniel’s teams. Apiece of mortar ricocheted off Jack’s head, picking up some skin and hair along the way. He reeled back, and the groans volleying from various locations on the gallery told him that the flying masonry casualties were mounting. It was the least of their problems. Through the holes in the 8

walls piled more guys in ninja outfits. Twelve in all, four to each breach, they exploded onto the catwalk like the wrath of God. Jack never even had time to aim. He fired anyway, from reflex and an instinctive urge to stop the nemesis thundering toward him. The shot went high, and all he could do was brace for the onslaught. His dance partner was a woman, surprisingly enough, at least an inch taller than he and built like a Russian shot-putter. Etiquette would have to suffer, he concluded, and rammed the butt of his rifle into her midriff. It didn’t slow her down. Miss Universe bellowed like an ox, one beefy hand slapping away the rifle, the other delivering a roundhouse blow that tore Jack off his feet and flung him against the railing. It sounded like someone clearing his throat, and he felt it before he heard it—the dry crunch of ancient metal deciding that enough was enough. The railing gave. There was an endless, weightless moment of teetering on the edge and Carter screaming his name. As if it’d been waiting for that chance, a red streak leaped through dusty air and at the middle of her forehead, shearing off the scream. Gravity kicked in the same instant, and Jack fell, ass over tit and almost grateful, still hanging on to his gun, knowing this was it. Here flies Jack O’Neill, Smug Bastard. He’d be lucky if he didn’t survive. He landed on something soft and squishy that compacted under his weight. Teeth still rattling from the impact, he lay inside a crater of white fluff. Over its rim gawked the baffled faces of Larry, Curly, and Moe. “Hi,” Jack said grimly and brought up his rifle. “Just thought I’d drop in.” A curiously Dopplered yell from above cut off whatever else he’d meant to say or do. By the time he’d located its origin, it was too late. Miss Universe came hurtling through space like a monster fruit bat, on a trajectory that ended smack atop one Jack O’Neill. Who, knowing what would happen, closed his eyes in silent resignation. The First Aid tent had adopted all the atmosphere and civility of the catering marquee at a biker shindig. People were guzzling or spilling coffee of every description— cream and two sugars left the best stains on lab coats—and dropped empty paper cups where they stood. Sergeant Pancaldi had eviscerated an MRE pack to get at the candy bar—which, frankly, he could do without—and sat on a spare gurney, a happily munching nucleus at the heart of the mayhem. Calories or no, you couldn’t discount the curative properties of chocolate. Pancaldi was the only satisfied customer in the entire tent. Everybody else, including the female contingent, was squirting testosterone. “…could have killed her!” “It was an accident! Besides, she—” “Accident, my ass!” “I can spell it out for you, jarhead!” “Jarhead! Wanna take that up with an officer?” The participants in this lively conversation had surrounded a portable defib unit and were threatening to come to blows over it. A shy-looking orderly took his life into his hands and tried to rescue the equipment. “Excuse me?” “What officer? Somebody’s actually in charge of you hoodlums?”

“Excuse me!” “Yo, flyboy! Butt out!” “Muscles are required, intellect not essential. Can you string the initials into a word Jarhead?” “Excuse me!” The orderly made a grab for the defibrillator and got in the way of a shove. That did it. Dr. Janet Fraiser was all for healthy social exchange between the service branches, but this was getting a little too tactile. She’d either have to start administering chocolate or clear the tent. The latter was better for her nerves, and never mind the patients’ welfare. “Shut it! That’s an order!” The bellow stalled arguments, made Marines and Airmen flinch, provoked ducked heads among nursing staff, caused Pancaldi to choke on his candy bar, and trailed blessed silence in its wake. Inevitably, really. Most mouths hung open. Yep. Meet the mouse that roared. Janet Fraiser was five foot three in heels and not of a build anyone would associate with Pavarotti volume. A good diaphragm had its perks. What made it especially rewarding was the fact that at least half of this mob didn’t even know her. She smiled winningly. “Ladies and gentlemen! Now that I have your full and undivided attention, listen up. Anyone who can walk and doesn’t have a job to do, get the hell out of my tent and don’t step back in unless you’re dying!” From the gurney to her right came a rustle, followed by a strangled moan. Without even looking, she snapped, “That doesn’t include you, so stay put! Sir!” The rest of the delinquents were still gawking at her, though some of the mouths had started to close. “Well? What are you waiting for?” “Shorry, Doc,” mumbled Pancaldi around a chunk of chocolate. Then he slid off his perch and led the exodus. Two minutes later the tent had cleared, except for three patients—well, two patients and an immovable object—and two nursing staff. The daredevil orderly still clucked over the defib unit like a hen over her chicks. He had a slightly nervous disposition, but he was a cracking triage nurse. “Stand down, Corporal. I think it’s safe,” she said, trying hard not to sound patronizing. “Can you see to Private Lamont? The morphine should have kicked in by now, and her jaw needs bandaging. It’ll have to be wired shut, but I don’t want to do that here. The ambulance is standing by, so whenever you’re done, she can go.” “Yes, ma’am!” The corporal relinquished the defibrillator and headed for the opposite corner of the tent, where PFC Lamont lay sprawled on a gurney, humming tunelessly. The morphine had kicked in alright. Now for the fun part. Fraiser squared her shoulders and turned to the would-be absconder who, unlike the now departed multitudes, knew her exceedingly well—too well to even have tried to vamoose. The back of his gurney had been raised, bringing him to eyelevel with the immovable object, which was delivering a hushed lecture. The patient, not in the mood for sermons, dispensed one of his patented glares.

“Dammit, Daniel!” His outburst stopped the lecture in its tracks and rattled the tent poles. Then he lowered his voice. “Can the pep talk already. I screwed up.” Sitting in a chair next to him, Daniel Jackson sported a first-class shiner that was only partly concealed by an eye patch. Shiner and patch were down to a close encounter with an airborne brick. His glasses were trashed, though they hadn’t done any further damage, and he squinted myopically at his friend. “Guess what, Jack? We all do. Live with it.” Whereupon Colonel O’Neill looked ready to throttle an archeologist. The temper was only a first reaction, and Janet Fraiser knew it. She sure as hell didn’t want to be there when it all sank in. He wasn’t exactly adept at forgiving himself. If this had been for real, eighty percent of his men, Sam Carter included, would be dead and it would have been his fault. If it had been for real… Well, it hadn’t been! She sighed and moved in to join the fray. Nothing like a good distraction. Which really was the reason why she’d allowed Dr. Jackson to stay. That and the fact that, for the first time since Reese’s death, there seemed to be a spring thaw in the cold war between him and Jack O’Neill. Maybe the accident hadn’t been such a bad thing after all. “Let’s check you out, Colonel,” she said. I m— “Peachy. Yeah. I heard you the first six times. Newsflash, sir: you’re peachy when I say you are and not a moment sooner.” “Na—” “—poleonic power monger. So you keep telling me.” “I was going to say ‘naturally’.” For a split-second his gaze met hers, and he shot her a grin that was as brittle as glass. “The Marines who pulled him out said he had trouble breathing,” Dr. Jackson offered, which earned him a sour snarl. “I’d like to see them breathe with a mature killer whale landing on their asses.” “It wasn’t your ass, and she didn’t mean to. One of our guys knocked her off the gallery.” “Didn’t mean to? She took aim! Just keep her the hell away from me!” “She—” “You won’t have to worry about her for a while,” Janet cut in. “Private Lamont’s worse off than you, Colonel.” His scowl crumbled into concern. “She gonna be okay?” “Eventually. She struck the stock of your rifle face-on. Her jaw’s fractured pretty badly. She’ll need some new teeth, too.” “Ouch.” Dr. Jackson winced. “Yeah. Ouch. Speaking of which.” She nodded at O’Neill. “Can you take your shirt off for me, sir?” He tried. The result were clenched teeth and a grimace and something that sounded like cannelloni herbs and summer fish. Janet blinked. “Come again, Colonel?” “Can’t sit up.” He made an elocution lesson of spitting out the words. At a guess, the respiratory problem had resolved itself. “It hurts like a son of a bitch!”

“Ah. Good job I didn’t let you sneak out then.” “It wasn’t that bad a while ago.” If he actually admitted to it, it had to be really bad. She peeled the shirt apart. His skin had barely left the flushed stage for indigo, but tomorrow it’d be a dozen shades of purple. About five inches wide at its broadest, the contusion looped from the lower right front of his ribcage up the side and disappeared under his arm. Superficially nothing seemed to be broken, which was great news—if not entirely pleasant. Deep bruising could be more painful than a fracture and for longer. “Sorry,” she announced. “This’ll hurt.” “Ya think?” As gently as she could she probed for injuries, bits that moved when they shouldn’t or were stuck where they didn’t belong. He didn’t say a peep, but by the time she finished his face had turned pale under the tan and glistened with sweat. “Sorry,” Janet said again, meaning it. “I had to make sure.” “Sure of what?” he panted. “My pain threshold?” “Didn’t know you had one, sir.” Eyebrows arched in mock surprise, she grinned. “Button up. The shirt, I mean. You’re lucky. When Lamont fell on top of you, those cotton bales absorbed most of the impact. No broken ribs this time.” “Then how come—” “But you’ve got severe contusions, and I don’t have to tell you that those always are fun. They’ve triggered something that’s called intercostal neuralgia.” “Panama Canal?” “Costal, not coastal!” Across the gurney, Dr. Jackson rolled one eye. “That was crap, Jack, even by your standards.” In Janet Fraiser’s experience, the safest course of action lay in ignoring the pair of them. “I’ll give you some Demerol, Colonel, but other than that it’ll just have to heal on its own.” “I don’t need painkillers.” The phrasing was disputable, though she knew better than to quibble. He didn’t want painkillers. He thought he deserved everything he got and then some. Janet pasted on an innocent smile. “Oh, you’ll need them. Sooner or later you’ll find it necessary to take off your pants or tie your shoelaces.” Assertions of the contrary were cut off by a commotion at the entrance. The ambulance crew was about to stretcher off PFC Lamont, and two visitors were trying to get past it into the tent. Her orderly made the most unlikely bouncer you could ever hope to meet. “Sorry, ma’am. Uh…” With an uncertain look from the blond Major to the enormous black guy whose rank, if any, was a mystery, he added, “Sir. You can’t come in unless you’re dying. Dr. Fraiser’s—” “It’s okay!” Janet called before the corporal, in the line of duty, committed a folly he might regret. “Let them in.” Dusty, disheveled, streaks of camouflage paint still decorating her nose, Major Carter pushed past the orderly. She came to an abrupt halt in the middle of the tent, the relief on her face boundless and, for once, unguarded.

Teal’c filled in what she didn’t say. “O’Neill. Daniel Jackson. I am pleased to see you alive.” Trust him to come straight to the point. His dark voice rang with genuine warmth, and it had the added effect of shaking up Sam Carter. She snapped back into her usual efficiency, just about jumped to attention, and said, “Sir. Daniel. Debrief’s over at the factory in fifteen, if you’re good to go.” Major General George S. Hammond’s chair—an exquisitely uncomfortable creation in orange plastic—crowned one end of two stained tables, which had been pushed together lengthways to create a debriefing venue for this debacle. At the other end, too far to kick the man’s ankles but not far enough to miss the smirk, sat Lieutenant General Philip “Alistair” Crowley, USMC. Whoever had dreamed up that call sign displayed commendable insight into the human psyche. The key members of his coven sat along one side of the makeshift conference table, looking as superior as their intrepid leader. The Air Force participants opposite looked anything but. The room itself was high in ambience, a former cafeteria on the top level of an abandoned factory building on the outskirts of Colorado Springs. The floor was padded with newspaper where the linoleum had cracked, the windows were dirty and streaked by drizzle, and yellowing acoustic tiles drooped from a damp ceiling. Atop two crates in a corner sat a TV/VCR, screen snowy with static. Up until two minutes ago it had been playing video footage of the Armageddon that had taken place two levels below. All in all, Hammond wished he were in a galaxy far, far away, where they had comfy chairs. Where the people voted least likely didn’t suddenly commit catastrophic deployment errors. Where one’s superiors didn’t insist on scheduling exercises that did more harm than good and only served to stroke inflated egos. Maybe he wasn’t entirely objective. Losers rarely were. He closed his eyes. The galaxy far, far away didn’t materialize. The underlying mistake had been his, of course. He should never have agreed to it: a handpicked crew of Recon Marines against the finest the US Air Force had to offer. Okay, he hadn’t agreed to it. Staging an exercise like this at a time when the Navy was at the Air Force’s throat, and the Air Force at the Navy’s, and the Army at everybody’s because they’d all been led to believe it was a matter of survival? Madness. Waste. To the best of his knowledge, rivalry among the forces had never won a war yet, and fact of the matter was that they were fighting a war—the most crucial war ever. Even if only five people in this room were aware of it. So he’d said no. Once, twice, a half dozen times. But Crowley had been more insistent than an insurance salesman. He also was well-connected. After all, the Marines guarded you-know-whom. The final invitation had arrived via that red phone on General Hammond’s desk, and its phrasing had been along the lines of Do it! RSVP. If he weren’t up to his eyeballs in politics, struggling to keep Senator Kinsey and the NID at arm’s length, he still might have talked his way out of it—he’d done it before—but giving in had just seemed quicker. Easier. Safer. The hallmarks of a poor decision.

In consequence, a bunch of good people who should be out there doing it for real had got the crap kicked out of them for kudos, and one of them had damn near got himself killed. Christ almighty, Jack! What the hell went wrong? Rejoining the proceedings might be one way of finding out, Hammond figured. To his dismay, the room hadn’t magically transformed into a desert island when he opened his eyes. At least the timing was perfect. Crowley was through pontificating on the merits of inter-service competition. Gives the men an edge, and that’s what we want, right? Rah-rah! “So, let’s assess this, ladies and gentlemen, shall we?” brayed Crowley. “George?” Hammond dumbly nodded his assent—what else could he do?—thinking all the while that, if anything, Colonel O’Neill might have lost his edge. Under the circumstances, eighty percent casualties were indefensible. It had been a simple raid scenario. The rules allowed each team to carry laser-sighted intars—the Marines had been told they were a new type of long-range stun gun—and basic equipment and two cutting charges. Specialized gadgets, even radios, had been off-limits. Straightforward stuff, in other words. Which, in the way of any decent circular argument, led right back to What the hell went wrong? If Hammond were to play it by the book, today’s performance should be Jack’s ticket to a desk from where to organize supplies. Under strict supervision. But when it came to this particular officer, Hammond rarely played things by the book, and he wanted to know a lot more before he even contemplated going down the supplies route. Question was whether he’d learn it in this room. Chest feathers puffed, Colonel Pete Norris, the CO of the Marine teams, had begun outlining his strategy, which boiled down to Take It And Keep It. Pragmatic, if hardly novel. Either side of him, his team leaders dutifully scratched the highlights onto notepads. Crowley interrupted here and there, asking through a benign smile for reiteration of choice moments. “That’s correct, sir,” replied Norris. “There were those steel girders under the ceiling. I ordered ten of my men up there when I realized that the gallery could be critical.” “That’s a considerable proportion of your manpower, Colonel,” Crowley observed. “Wasn’t that a bit reckless?” “With respect, sir, no. We had the ground floor entrances covered. Same goes for the only staircase to the upper levels. I had twelve people on standby there. Those are the ones who were then deployed to break through the walls onto the catwalk.” “Hang on a minute.” Dr. Jackson, who until now had been listening with sullen forbearance, started scribbling numbers onto the notepad in front of him. Once he was finished, he frowned at them. The eye patch made him look like a kid who’d come to the Halloween party in a pirate outfit two inches shy of menacing. “You’ve got a question, Doctor?” Crowley was craning his neck, trying to see what Jackson had written. “As a matter of fact, yes. These figures don’t add up. We were allowed no more than twenty-five men each. Now, even if the unit that Murray”—he cast a quick 14

glance at Teal’c whose tattoo was safely hidden under a watch cap—“and his team chased around the grounds was only half the strength we assumed it was… still seems like Colonel Norris had about five men too many.” “That’s exactly why civilian contractors shouldn’t be allowed in the field!” Norris snarled. “How can you folks even start to comprehend tactical issues?” Slick as a buttered bun, Crowley cut in. “Dr. Jackson, have you considered that Murray was chasing his own tail because Colonel O’Neill’s reconnaissance wasn’t quite what it should have been?” “No, because that’s absolutely—” “Colonel Norris, please continue,” said Crowley. And on it went. With the one difference that Major Carter had furtively swapped her notepad for Dr. Jackson’s and was adding some scribbling of her own. At last Norris ran out of brilliant ideas to present for applause, and Crowley thanked him and turned his gaze on Jack O’Neill. “Colonel O’Neill? Your take on it, please.” Face rigid, Jack abandoned an ongoing attempt to skewer his notepad with a pen and stared at the window. “Yessir.” He kept staring at that window throughout a clinical analysis of his actions that lasted a fraction of the time Norris’ homily had taken and was twice as brutal. Largely on himself. Halfway through, Hammond heard the door open and close. Somebody had stepped into the room, silently hovering in the background. Whoever it was could wait while Jack relentlessly approached the crux of the matter. He had failed to correctly assess the tactical situation inside the factory. The problem was, George Hammond still refused to believe it. “I screwed up. Sorry, sir.” Jack finally gave up on the window and glanced at Hammond. For once, he looked his age. “I’m just glad it was an exercise. God help me if it hadn’t been.” “That’s one reason why we stage these things,” intoned Crowley. “We all can do with a wake-up call now and again. Now, ladies and gentlemen, I think that wraps it up. Thank you all for your efforts, and hopefully we can arrange a rematch at some point. Dismissed.” There were perfunctory handshakes across the table, then the Marines rose and Norris went to collect his pat on the back from Crowley. In a cloud of chatter they filtered out the door. The Air Force contingent all but ignored their exit. Colonel O’Neill had resumed his scrutiny of the glassware. Dr. Jackson and Major Carter were huddled over a notepad. Maintaining his quiet air of aloofness, Teal’c didn’t huddle but peered over sideways and evidently didn’t much care for what he— The slow, deliberate claps echoed through the empty room like gunshots, startling them all. “Astonishing. I didn’t think I’d ever have the privilege of seeing you eat humble pie, Colonel. Actually, for a moment there I thought you’d choke on it.” The man slid off a chair by the door and ambled toward them, perfectly groomed in a suit by Armani or Boss or some other designer that didn’t tailor for people of Hammond’s stature. The urbane facade was as deceptive as quicksand, of course.

Sam Carter’s face suggested that somebody was trying to feed her live slugs. “What are you doing here?” In a way, Hammond was grateful she’d beaten him to it. He couldn’t have risked infusing the question with quite the same amount of venom. Then again, he didn’t have quite as much reason to hate the man. “Simmons,” he ground out. “Oh yes.” Colonel Frank Simmons smiled. “Surely you were made aware that the NID had assigned an observer to this… masterpiece?”

CHAPTER THREE

“Come on, Gus! Don’t go official on me,” Sam Carter purred, grimacing—partly at herself for the purr, partly at Gus and his habit of making people woo him. She wasn’t a wooer. Eighty-seven degrees through a monumental eye roll she caught sight of Daniel who came strolling into her lab, Teal’c in tow. Pinning the handset between ear and shoulder, she gestured for them to grab chairs. At the other end of the line, in an office in Chantilly, Virginia, Augustus “Gus” Przsemolensky was graduating from No way! to I’m not supposed to. “For old times’ sake. Gus! This is me!” Teal’c’s left eyebrow did a pull-up, and Dr. Jackson mouthed Gus? with such an exaggerated look of surprise that Sam exploded into a snort. “No! I had to sneeze. Dust.” She glowered at Daniel. “Look, if somebody asks… Yeah, blame it on CORONA… You will? Great! Got something to write? Here goes…” Sam reeled off a set of coordinates, date, and time and repeated it all for good measure. “You got my email address. Ten minutes would be good… Okay, okay… Half an hour. Thanks, Gus.” She put the handset back into the cradle and sagged onto her lab bench, forehead resting on folded hands. “Talk about giving birth to China,” she muttered at a technical drawing. “Gu-u-us,” sang Daniel, drawing it out over three syllables. “Anything you want to tell us, Sam?” Raising her head just enough to glare at him between bits of disassembled particle accelerator and mummified donuts, she growled, “Not really. How about you?” Daniel’s glee evaporated. “Looks like they’re here to stay.” “Damn! Have they talked to either of you yet?” “They have not, Major Carter.” Teal’c sounded like a funeral director. “What about the Colonel?” “No idea. I doubt it, though,” said Daniel and shrugged. “I tried to phone him a few times. Don’t know how he did it, but his service is redirecting all calls to the talking clock in Tokyo.” “It’s what?” Sam straightened up, knocking a donut mummy off the bench. It bounced. “That’s… impressive. How do you know it’s the talking clock?” “I speak—” “Japanese. Of course.” “Anyway, I guess even those NID jerks would have got the Do not disturb part.”

Yesterday, three days after that misbegotten exercise, two faceless, flavorless NID agents of unspecified rank and sublime dress sense had descended upon Stargate Command. Over the protests of General Hammond. The protests had been silenced by a call from Washington. It wasn’t the first time it had happened, it sure as hell wouldn’t be the last—unless somebody finally grew the balls to shut down that nest of vipers—but usually you found out in a hurry why the NID came at you. If only because they came at you with all the diplomatic finesse of an Abrams M1A battle tank. Sam winced at the memory of her own interview with Frank Simmons a few months back. He’d made a damn good bid at dismantling her professionally, mentally, emotionally. Halfway through she’d grasped that Simmons had to be the illegal user who’d hacked into the SGC mainframe. Thinking she could rattle him, she’d accused him point blank. Water off a duck’s back. He hadn’t even tried to deny it, and the threat implicit in his indifference had scared the hell out of her. Eventually, Simmons had left. The threat hadn’t. It lingered like a bad smell. His impromptu appearance at the debriefing four days ago had reinforced it nicely. And now his henchmen were here, sniffing after— “Major Carter.” “What?” Teal’c silently pointed at her computer. In the lower right-hand corner of the screen the mail icon was flashing. “That was quick. I think Gus is a little overeager.” Daniel’s eye patch rode up his forehead, and he grinned. “Want me to check?” “You wouldn’t be able to read it. Besides, it can’t be him yet. He’s never in his life been ahead of a deadline.” Then again, stranger things had happened. She darted out from behind the lab bench, pushed aside her computer chair, currently inhabited by Daniel, and opened the email. From: [emailprotected] To: [emailprotected] Subject: Long time no see Sam, great to hear from you and thanks for thinking of an old flame. Do as you promised and drop in on me next time you’re in this neck of the woods. Gus xoxox No attachment. More significantly, no encryption. Gus encrypted his shopping lists. She should know because, once upon a time, she’d played Crack The Algorithm with him. Either Gus wasn’t the author, or he’d wanted to demonstrate to somebody standing over him that this was perfectly harmless—and at the same time warn Sam Carter. She felt a lump of ice congealing in the pit of her stomach. “Oh crap,” she whispered. “Crap!” “Hey! He did sign off with hugs and kisses. There’s hope yet.” Daniel was scanning the mail, then his gaze arrested on the sender’s address. “National Reconnaissance Office? Friends in high places, huh? All the way in orbit. Now care to tell us what this is all about?” Sam dug a crumpled piece of paper from her back pocket and tossed it at Daniel. “Your little math problem.”

“My what?” Smoothing out wrinkles between thumb and forefinger, he stared at his own writing. “Oh. Well, that got slapped down alright. Dr. Jackson, have you considered that Colonel O’Neill’s reconnaissance wasn’t quite what it should have been?” His rendition of Crowley’s adenoid twang was flawless. “So what about it?” “Daniel, we both know that the Colonel’s reconnaissance was just dandy. Teal’c did most of it.” “Indeed.” The Jaffa had risen from a chair that seemed two sizes too small for his frame and wandered over to them, all elegance and contained power. “O’Neill had no reason to assume that there were sufficient numbers for the kind of ambush we experienced.” “But telling that to Crowley would have gone over like a pregnant pole-vaulter,” Daniel glumly completed the thought. “Jack must have realized when I got my butt kicked by Norris. Maybe I should have just kept my mouth shut.” “O’Neill would not have told General Crowley under any circumstances.” “Teal’c’s right,” said Sam. “The Colonel believes he’s to blame. No points for guessing what that means.” “Yeah,” grumbled Daniel. “Anybody who wants to tell him otherwise can go have a heart to heart with the talking clock in Tokyo.” “Which is why Major Carter attempted to obtain independent evidence from Augustus Przsemolensky.” “Yup.” Sam nodded at Teal’c. “Your momma didn’t raise no dummies.” “She did not.” The smile was there if you knew him, quirking just beneath the dignified surface. “I am an only child.” “Sooo…” Pensively shredding the notepaper, Daniel gazed at the computer screen and then back at Sam. “You asked your friend Gus at the NRO to get you a satellite picture of the factory grounds at the time of the exercise. The idea being to run a headcount of everybody outside. How am I doing for a civilian contractor with no grasp of tactical issues?” “Not bad.” She grinned. “Colonel Norris would be shocked.” “I don’t see a picture.” “No.” Her grin died, and Sam crossed her arms in front of her chest as if to protect herself. The iceberg in her stomach wanted to stage a comeback. For a minute or two she’d allowed herself to push aside the implications of Gus’ email. They meshed perfectly with the diffuse sense of dread the presence of the NID agents had triggered. But none of this would go away just because she ignored it. Simmons wouldn’t go away. She drifted back behind her lab bench, feeling safer among the familiar clutter of research and experimentation. At least that was predictable, obeyed rules. By and large. “Somebody intercepted my phone call,” she said at last. “My money’s on the NID. Unless Gus told them, they won’t know what I asked him to do, because the call was scrambled. But they do know where it came from and where it went, and they got to Gus by return post. There’s no chance of him sending me any pictures now. No chance of proving anything, either way.”

“Oh crap, huh? But you’re wrong.” The corners of Daniel’s mouth twitched, and he looked nine shades of smug. It went well with the eye patch. “They’ve shown their hand. They’ve just told us loud and clear that there is something to prove. All you’ve got to do is find another way of proving it.” “There is no other—” Her eyes arrested on the dismantled generator and a clutch of tools. Research and experimentation. Predictable. Obeying rules. By and large. Sam gazed up and smiled. “Okay, scratch that. Gentlemen, we’re going on a fieldtrip back to the factory.” As they left the lab, klaxons started wailing, signaling an incoming wormhole five levels below. Habit tugged at her and demanded she head down to the control room. Sam made for the armory instead. There were some props they needed to collect, ideally without answering questions. The well-timed excitement in the gate room would keep the NID creeps occupied. The stowaway stepped from the chill, liquid embrace of the Chappa’ai. Behind her the wormhole destabilized and died, and the barrier, which the Tauri thought could protect them, slid into place. Before her two of them slowly marched down the ramp, supporting a third. He was injured. So fragile, humans. So ignorant. Little did they suspect that she had caused the injury, caused the man to trip and fall down a ravine and break his leg. She had heard the bones snap. It had amused her. Fragile indeed. And because they feared their own fragility, they had invented a goddess of deceit and destruction to appease. Destruction and deceit were apt enough, but there was much more. “So much more, my children.” Her lips moved, but she did not utter a sound. Not yet. For the ones who appeased her enough, there were rewards—screaming, bloodsweet turmoil of body and mind. If, ultimately, the rewards pleased her more than their recipients, it was only due tribute to a deity. The humans had eased their injured comrade onto a step at the bottom of the ramp. Others, clad in black, swarmed around them. Toward the edges of her vision they appeared increasingly distorted, grotesque gnomes brandishing grotesque weapons. The phase shifting device smudged her view of their reality into a gray-ingray perspective through shattered glass. A noise to the left made her turn her head— too fast—and her eyes snapped shut against a jagged blur of images. She blinked and saw the healer rush into the room. No black for this one. This one wore white. For purity, she presumed, snarling at the thought. Not so pure, this one. Not above destruction and deceit, just like her. She remembered this diminutive woman pointing a weapon, large and out of place in too-small hands. This healer, so-called, had forced her to reverse the maturing of the first viable hak’taur. Centuries of labor destroyed at the cusp of fruition… She felt a swell of rage, let it fill her, relishing its heat. No weapon now. It would be easy to crush the healer’s body. It could be achieved in a heartbeat, and the humans, fragile and ignorant, would be helpless to prevent it. But this was not the time, and it was enough to know that she could do it. That knowledge held a satisfaction all of its own, an assurance of godlike power over life and death. She smiled. 20

Their fat, bald leader had joined the group around the injured man. “What happened?” he barked. Did it matter? And did anyone believe this show of concern? Apparently they did. Excited voices chattered out a garbled account of an accident that had been no accident. Humans. How they bored her! Most, but not all of them. She scanned the room for more adequate. entertainment and was disappointed. Then again, she would have wanted to meet him alone, like the last time… “In your place I doubt I would have done the same.” The fact that she concedes even that much is remarkable, and she does not quite know why she has admitted the truth or what it means. A grudging tribute or a warning against future folly. At any rate, a challenge. Dark eyes unreadable, he turns it back on her. “I’ll keep that thought alive.” About to step onto the ramp, she throws a last look at him—tall, lean, grayhaired, fearless. A worthy adversary. Better yet, a complex one. Life has scored that handsome, narrow face, and hidden behind his eyes lies a much older man’s experience of bliss, agony, death. A lot of the latter, she suspects and idly wonders what it will take to break him. Deceit and destruction? Perhaps. Perhaps she will find out. Perhaps not. But whatever the answer, they are not finished yet. She smiles a promise, and he understands her perfectly. The memory was shattered by two more men entering the room below, their clothing markedly different from the others’. These were the ones the human Simmons had advised her to contact. She briefly recalled the image of his face in the communication globe. No secrets here. The mouth alone, sensuous and cruel, betrayed his thirst for power, and the long, fleshy features held a haughtiness that rivaled her own. He could be trusted, because his most fundamental trait could be trusted: greed. Noiselessly she glided down the ramp and toward the new arrivals. Slipping in behind the younger one, blue-eyed and innocent, she caressed his neck. He would not be able to feel her touch in his phase, not completely. It would seem like a breath of cool wind to him, she assumed. She had assumed correctly. Fine blond hairs stood on end. A second gentle stroke across soft skin, and he shivered imperceptibly, which pleased her. Perhaps she would reward him. A poor substitute, but a substitute nonetheless. At the third touch he nudged his companion, who turned around, frowned, shrugged. They had been told what to expect but still hesitated to accept what they could not see. So very human. It did not matter, however, as long as they obeyed their instructions. A mere two paces away, the injured man was carried from the room. Behind him followed the healer and the human leader. The elder of the escorts stepped forward and addressed him. “General Hammond?” “I don’t have time for you now, Kyser!” “This won’t take a moment, and I guarantee you’ll like what you hear.” The man Kyser gave a tight smile. The General stopped in his tracks and whirled around, nimble for a man of his girth. “Make it quick!”

“Simply a courtesy, General. We’re finished here. You can expect Colonel Simmons’ report within a day or two.” “Fine. Don’t let the door hit you on your way out.” The human leader strode off. “Don’t let that head of yours get too big,” Kyser hissed into thin air. “One of these days, it’s gonna roll, General. Real soon.” Then he nodded at the younger man. “Let’s go.” She followed them through a maze of drab corridors, into two elevators for an endless journey toward daylight, and finally out into a manmade cavern. This area accommodated surface conveyances, and it smelled acrid with fumes. Her escorts stopped at a vehicle, large and sand-colored. The young one unlocked its doors. “Now what?” he asked. “We wait a few minutes, then we make tracks,” replied Kyser. “If she’s in the car, great. If not, I won’t complain. I’m not exactly keen on spending hours on a plane with an invisible snake at my back.” “Would it make you feel more confident if I were visible?” She enjoyed the effect immensely. The man stifled a scream and staggered against the rear of the vehicle, staring at her in pure terror. She approached until she stood pressed against him, fingers playing across his cheek. Without warning they clenched in his hair. “Be grateful that I choose not to punish you for your insolence!” “Yes, ma’am.” “Now take me to your master.” “Yes, ma’am.” Daniel watched the anchor-like metal contraption reach its zenith and stall. It hovered for a moment, then it flipped downward and nosed into yet another plunge, trailing rope. He clamped his hands over his ears, winced. The noise of a grappling hook striking concrete, amplified by God knew how many thousand cubic feet of empty space, was cataclysmic. It seemed to drill through his hands and into his ears, after which it converged somewhere behind his shiner to pound around a bit. Wonderful. By the end of this he’d probably be deaf and blind. Eventually the echo died down and Sam shouted, “That was great, Teal’c! Nearly there. Try again!” Oh for cryin’ out loud… to coin a phrase. “Sam, I really—” “Major Carter.” Teal’c actually looked frazzled. “ATauri scientist named Albert Einstein devised a most apposite definition of insanity. Are you familiar with it?” “Yes. Doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results.” “I assure you, the result will be no different however many times I attempt this.” Which was the sound of a Jaffa digging in his heels. Cross-legged on the floor, Sam hunched over her laptop, keying stuff that presumably made sense to her. Now she gazed up. Just how she did it was a mystery to Daniel, but her smile lit up the gloomy factory hall and raised ambient temperatures by several degrees. A select few had been known to say No to the killer beam. Jack, for instance, though he probably practiced in front of the mirror. On this occasion, the full force of it was directed at Teal’c, who wasn’t in training. His

resistance wilted, and he wordlessly began coiling the zip line attached to the grappling hook. Take umpteen. “Your last two tries were really close,” she said, faintly apologetic. “I’ve computed the kilopond necessary to get that hook up there. That’s easy, just a function of weight and distance, with the aerodynamic drag of the rope factored in. I’ve also downloaded your physiological profile from Janet’s databank, which allows me to calculate the force you put into a throw like this. Now, given that the differential between—” “Major Carter. I am ready, and it is getting late. We shall not be able to continue after sunset.” Teal’c’s methods were somewhat more gracious than Jack’s but equally effective. Sam abandoned a lecture, which, in the simplest of terms, came down to If a Jaffa can’t get the damn hook up there, nobody can. She nodded. “Go ahead.” After a glance at the girder thirty meters above, Teal’c stepped back and measured out some slack on the zip line. Then he began swinging rope and hook in a diagonal circle over his head. Once, twice. The third time he let go, his body extending as if he meant to take flight himself. The grappling hook soared upward and did what it’d been doing for the past hour. Five meters or so short of the girder it ran out of steam and stalled. Crash-bang-boom. “Well, I think that settles it.” The words mixed with the echo still caroming through Daniel’s sinuses, and he yawned to ease the pressure. Then his mouth snapped shut with an audible clack. “Uh-oh.” The man stood motionless just inside the open gate, outlined by a wedge of copper evening light. Terrific! If not entirely unexpected. The ongoing racket was bound to have brought security guards on the plan sooner or later. Of course they’d hoped to be out of here sooner. Strictly speaking, what they were doing could be considered trespassing at best, breaking and entering at worst. “We’ve just come to collect some leftover equipment.” Sam had risen, arms slightly spread to indicate that she was unarmed. “There was a military exercise here a few days ago. If you want to—” “I know there was an exercise, Carter. I got you killed, remember?” “Sir!” Chiseled by a sharp breath, it sounded like a sob. “O’Neill,” said Teal’c. “The one and only.” Fists sunk into the pockets of a leather jacket, he started walking toward them, affecting the nonchalance of a tourist at some historical site. Gee, that’s a real neat battlefield! Except, it didn’t quite come off as planned. He moved as though somebody had strapped him into a corset, and when he finally stepped out of that glaring backlight, Daniel was startled to see how drained he looked. Drained and wound more tightly than a wristwatch. “What the hell are you doing here, Jack?” “The perp always returns to the scene of the crime. Never heard of it? We also tend to turn up at funerals.” By Jack O’Neill’s standards this was a whole encyclopedia of information, although Daniel was willing to bet a month’s paycheck that Jack had had no real

intention of carrying the conversation even this far. If they hadn’t noticed him, he’d have beat a quiet retreat until after they were gone. And then? He’d have come in here and made himself relive every second of the exercise, compulsively listing and re-listing everything he thought he’d done wrong. “Where’s the crime?” Daniel asked, aware that it was the next best thing to poking a tiger’s abscessed tooth. “We’ve had this discussion. We’re not having it again,” snarled the tiger. Then his curiosity asserted itself, and he took in the zip line, the hook, the laptop, and the piece of equipment sitting next to it. “What the hell are you doing here?” “Sir, we—” “Observe, O’Neill.” Obviously Teal’c had concluded that a demonstration would be more beneficial than Sam’s treatise on kilopond and differentials. The grappling hook flew, stalled, plunged, and made that infernal noise. Jack never even twitched. “You missed.” “That’s precisely our point, sir.” Sam allowed herself a small, hopeful grin. “If Teal’c’s throwing short, Norris’ team—Marines or no—wouldn’t have had a prayer of catching the girders. Unless”—she picked up a bulky gun that had the business end of a hook sticking out its nose—“they had launchers.” Settling the device against her shoulder, she took aim, fired. The hook soared, rope rippling after it, and neatly wrapped itself around a girder. Just like that, and with considerably less noise, too. “That’s the only way they could have got up there, Colonel,” she added. “And we both know that launchers weren’t permitted. Norris didn’t play by the rules, sir. Nobody can blame you for not anticipating that they’d cheat.” “Oh no?” Jack’s voice could have cut glass. “Tell me something, Major. When the Goa’uld pull the next new and improved doomsday machine out of their collective hat you gonna come running to me and bawl, ‘They’re cheating! They’re not permitted those, so I don’t wanna play!’?” “No, sir.” Her jaw worked, but she refused to be drawn into a fight. Sensing it, Jack wouldn’t let up. “That’s what the enemy do. They cheat. If you haven’t grasped that by now, you’re in the wrong job, Major! They cheat because it gives them an advantage. We do the same damn thing, and anybody who doesn’t anticipate that is a liability.” “Your comparison is flawed, O’Neill.” “Is it?” Jack whirled around, grimacing when the abrupt move jarred his ribs. “Indeed.” Slowly and methodically, Teal’c was coiling his zip line. Each coil punctuated a sentence. “It was a game. Games have rules. You abided by these rules and expected your opponent to do the same, because you knew it was a game. But the rules were broken. Who is to blame? You or the one who broke them?” As so often, Teal’c’s unshakeable calm deflated Jack. Sighing softly, he hunched his shoulders. “I know it was a game. What I don’t know is that I’d have done anything different if it’d hadn’t been. If it’d been for real… Sergeant Chen’s wife had a little girl two weeks ago. If it’d been for real, that kid would grow up without a father because of me. You’d be dead, too, Carter, and I’d rather not think about the

ways in which Jacob would rearrange my anatomy. As for you”—he tossed a wry grin at Daniel—“you’d probably have got your head in the way of some obstacle no matter what, so I won’t plead to that.” “Jack—” “Ah!” One hand held up, he wandered away, aimless until he was caught in the gravitational pull of the cotton bales and veered toward those. His left hand slipped from the pocket and started picking fluff. At last he turned back. “I appreciate what you’re trying to do, kids. I… Look, I’m sure Carter could get Norris sent down for grand larceny, but it’s not gonna change anything. So do me a favor and forget about it. I’d like get out of this with a few shreds of dignity intact.” The get out of this part was unequivocal and triggered something of a flashback. As far as thoroughly miserable conversations went, that one had been a doozy. “That’s… uh… that’s funny, because I didn’t figure you for the early retirement type anymore,” Daniel said quietly. Jack shot him a sharp glance. He remembered it too. Those words and what had come next. “So, this friendship thing we’ve been working on the last few years…” And he stares at Daniel point blank and finishes that half-formed question, “Apparently not much of a foundation, huh?” He had the same steady, determined, goddamn implacable look now, though the veneer of arrogance was missing completely. “This is different, Daniel, and you know it.” It was. This time it wasn’t a lie. This time it was for real. The question was if it’d be worth fighting. For a split-second, Daniel saw Reese’s dead face and asked himself if things weren’t just dandy the way they seemed to pan out now. Then he banished the thought to where it’d come from, ashamed of himself. Twisted and battered and bent out of shape, yes, but that friendship was still there, still for real, and as long as— “Sir, you can’t!” Sam had gone white as a sheet. “Not over this. Not when—” “When what, Carter?” Jack asked almost gently. “Always boils down to the same thing, see? Liability. In every sense of the word. Besides, I already have. The letter should be on Hammond’s desk tomorrow. The only alternative would be me pushing paper till the end of my days. You can see that working? No, wouldn’t have thought so. I can’t either.” Bits of cotton floated in the air, and he caught one, picked at it, blew it away again. Abruptly he turned and headed for the door. He looked surprisingly small in the vastness of the room, a black silhouette outlined by a wedge of light that had deepened from copper to burgundy. “That’s pathetic!” yelled Daniel, furious at him, Norris, the world at large. “The hero walking off into the sunset! It’s such a cliché, Jack!” For once there was no comeback. He just kept going. Daniel started after him, and was stopped by Teal’c’s large, strong hand clasping his arm. “Not now. You will not dissuade him now, Daniel Jackson.”

Colonel Frank Simmons had monitored the car’s approach from the control center. The vehicle had passed the gatepost at the outer perimeter of the safe house and gone on a winding journey through a mile of lush countryside. When it emerged from a pine copse and entered the last stretch toward the house, he’d gone outside to wait. Now he regretted it. The night air was freezing. Next to him Conrad shuffled, one finger stretching the collar of his turtleneck sweater. In all likelihood his discomfort was caused not by the collar but by the safety device it concealed; a remote-controlled choker studded with parcels of naquadah-enhanced explosive. One wrong move and it would literally blow Conrad’s head off—and kill the Goa’uld. It was the price he had to pay for attending the meeting. “Tell me one thing,” Simmons asked. “How can she be your mistress? You were stuck inside a Jaffa’s pouch when you got here, then you spent some time in a fish tank, and then you ended up inside our friend Adrian.” Conrad gave up fidgeting and condescended to answer. “You know nothing, human. The Jaffa who nursed me once belonged to her. The Goa’uld queen who bore me belonged to her. Therefore she is my mistress.” Headlights doused, the government-issue sedan pulled into the circular driveway in front of the house. The slamming of the doors and crackle of feet on gravel sounded overly loud in the stillness of the night, and Simmons finally admitted to a mild case of nerves. It had set in about six hours ago, when his operatives had informed him that they’d made contact and were en route to Peterson AFB where their jet was waiting. Even then Conrad had refused to reveal the identity of his ‘mistress’—another one of the pointless power games the Goa’uld seemed to enjoy so much—but it didn’t matter now. Simmons was about to find out. A blond agent held the door open for her, and she got out of the car with the grace of a debutante. The first thing that struck Simmons was how delicate she looked. Then she turned, and the light of a lamp below the portico illuminated a chinlength bob of raven hair, black almond eyes, a deceptively generous mouth, and a narrow nose. A diamond-shaped Bindi on the Chakra point between the eyebrows underlined the exotic flair of her features. Simmons resisted an urge to laugh. Not that he’d ever met her, of course, but he’d seen archive pictures and read the SGC reports, and by God, her credentials were perfect. More than that, she would be amenable to the offer. She needed all the help she could get. Slipping into his role of host—a rather worrying term, come to think of it—he glided down the steps to greet her. “Lady Nirrti. I’m delighted that you chose to accept my invitation.” The sardonic tilt of her eyebrows suggested that either the address had been too baroque or she’d seen through the formulaic courtesy. She swept past him and toward Conrad, eyes flaring. “What made you think you could allow this human to summon me here?” The distorted voice sounded almost masculine. It also sounded utterly cold, and Conrad, whose mask of superiority had slipped out of sight the moment she approached him, seemed tempted to prostrate himself. “Forgive me, mistress. I meant no offense. I acted merely from a wish to aid you.”

The veiled reminder of her precarious standing—if any—among the System Lords caused another baleful flicker in her eyes, but she was smart enough to concede the truth. “Very well. I am willing to discuss this proposal.” “In that case, please follow me.” Grateful to get out of the night chill, Simmons led her and Conrad into the library on the first floor. The ambiance would be sufficiently pompous, even for Goa’uld tastes. The room smelled of old leather bindings and faded parchment, and in the open grate roared a fire, the shine of its flames dancing across walls and a parquet floor. Atop a priceless Persian rug sat a cherry wood table, surrounded by high-backed chairs. Nirrti stopped dead in front of the grandfather clock by the door, listened to its ticking, suspicion contorting her face. “What is this device?” Not so omniscient after all. The urge to laugh threatened to return, and Simmons stifled it ruthlessly. “It measures time. It’s quite harmless, I assure you. Please, take a seat.” “How… quaint.” As she eased herself onto a chair, a sneer told him exactly what she thought of antique timepieces. Then her gaze fell on a crystal decanter and three glasses that sat on the table. “I am thirsty. Pour me some water.” Almost obeying, from reflex and the dicta of a conservative upbringing, he caught himself at the last moment. It was part of the power game, and if he gave in to her in the first round, she would have the upper hand throughout. Simmons ignored her and sat down in the chair opposite. Face stony, eyes simmering, she engaged in a staring contest. “Pour me some water.” Conrad broke. The command had never been directed at him, but he was hovering behind Nirrti’s chair like one of those… what did they call their loyal and trusted servants? Lotus? Luther? Lotar… like one of those lotars. Now he reached out, poured the water, handed the glass to her. “If it pleases you, mistress.” She took the glass without thanks and set it down on the table. When she looked up, she was smiling. “You have my attention, Simmons.” Simmons smiled back at her. “Any progress on the hak’taur yet?” “What do you know of the hak’taur? You could not possibly comprehend what it means!” It had rattled her, as it was meant to, and the hostility was back. Good. He preferred to confront the real nature of the beast. Smiling sharks were unpredictable. “I think I comprehend enough: hak means ‘improved’ and taur is a slang term for ‘Tauri’.” Dr. Jackson, tedious and rude as he was, had his uses. That report had been eminently informative. Without waiting for an answer, Simmons carried on. “Put together, you get a human with superhuman abilities. An über-host, in other words, which is what you’re after. You had to start from scratch, because Stargate Command, and specifically Dr. Fraiser, prevented you from using the Hankan girl, Cassandra. So I repeat: any progress yet?” “It took me more than two hundred of your human years to achieve what I had achieved with the Hankan girl. How much progress do you think I have made in the two months since?” “Not much I would assume.” Simmons schooled his features into a kindly frown. “And in the meantime you are virtually unprotected—one mothership and barely

enough Jaffa to man it isn’t exactly a defense force, is it? Is Lord Yu still hunting you?” “What if he were?” Her fingers caressed the stem of the water glass, twisting and turning it. “What is it to you?” That was a yes. So much the better. “I’m asking because I would be prepared to provide you with protection.” “What kind of protection?” “The kind only you would be able to create.” “You are talking in riddles!” Nirrti’s eyes brightened to neon-white displeasure. Conrad leaned forward and began whispering to her in rapid Goa’uld. “Speak English!” Simmons snapped. Neither of them gave any indication that they’d heard him. That little problem had to be solved and solved decisively. He rose. “This discussion is terminated.” Without another word he headed for the door. “Wait!” And then, as if it were causing her throat to ache, “Please.” “Yes?” He slowed to a halt and carefully wiped the smirk off his face before turning back to her. “I have no wish to offend you. Certain things are easier to understand in my own language. Sit.” It was as close to an apology as she would ever get. Nirrti watched him with the stare of a snake charmer while he resumed his seat. Suddenly she burst out laughing. “You amuse me, human. Be glad you do. So you thought it was a question of a simple surgical procedure?” “Of course not! We—” “Tried to implant the pouch. Then you tried to prevent the inevitable immune response by applying the crudest chemistry imaginable. Without success, of course. Each one of your subjects rotted slowly, from the inside out. Did it ever occur to you that the very thing that causes rejection would be integral to the process? A protein. Such a tiny thing. So small that you cannot see it with the naked eye. Tauri scientists call it a ‘building block of life’, yes? For once they are correct. And yet, this tiny thing will cause death if introduced into a body that responds improperly. Why do you think it is called symbiosis?” “Spare me the biology lesson!” Simmons placed his hands on the polished wood of the table and studied his fingernails. “I don’t care how it’s done, as long as it is done.” “What makes you think it can be done?” “The fact that it wouldn’t be the first time.” His gaze drifted up from his fingers, and he met her eyes. “Hathor did it.” Nirrti’s face twisted in a grimace. Apparently she and Hathor hadn’t been in the habit of sharing girlie secrets. “Hathor was a queen. I am not.” “Don’t take me for a fool!” In a deliberate show of anger, his right hand had slammed down on the tabletop. The glasses sang. “It had nothing to do with her being a queen and everything to do with a tasteless piece of costume jewelry. If I had to guess, I’d say it’s a close cousin to a Goa’uld healing device.” The shark’s smile returned, and she slowly inclined her head. “You say you would protect me? How?” “Some of the warriors you create would be at your disposal.”

“Some? Are you aware that Lord Yu can command thousands?” “It’s a question of quantity versus quality, isn’t it? The more advanced your product, the safer you will be. Pick the best and see what you can do. I trust this will aid in your own research?” “Conceivably.” Barely contained excitement supplanted her feral posturing. She looked almost childlike—the kind of child who would gut a live cat to hear it squeal. “How would I obtain the raw material?” “You won’t have to worry about that. I’ve made arrangements to ensure a steady supply of elite troops.” Elite troops, Simmons didn’t bother to explain, whose motto was Ever Faithful and who would always choose to protect the interests of the United States of America rather than those of a Goa’uld. “You forget that they cannot survive without a symbiote. I told you, I am not a queen. I shall not be able to provide the larvae.” “I haven’t forgotten.” He nodded at Conrad. “The scientists his host employed took live tissue samples. We cloned him. Right now, there’s about three hundred of him.” For the first time something like respect stole into her eyes. “Very well. I have a small additional request. Grant me that, and I shall give you what you ask.”

CHAPTER FOUR

Selection: Inducing, through natural or artificial processes, the survival of one type of organism over others that die. “Chevron seven… locked,” Sergeant Harriman concluded the ritual chant. Then he watched, like everyone else in the control room and for the thousandth time, as the event horizon whirled out in a cascade of glacial blue and retracted to a pool across the Stargate. “Seems to be engaging fine,” muttered Major Carter and bent over the dialing computer, backpack already on her shoulders. She’d been recalled from the embarkation room when the wormhole to M3D 335 had failed to establish. “It’s all nominal, and the diagnostics came up okay, too.” “Alright, ma’am. It’s just…” Harriman frowned a little. “Well, it’s not the first time.” “I know. Could be an orbital thing. I’ll look into it while I’m there. For now, and as long as it locks eventually, just roll with the punches. I don’t want to risk messing with the failsafe…” She left it hanging, but George Hammond knew what she was thinking: again. The last override on the failsafe had damn near annihilated a planet whose primary had taken none too kindly to being skewered by a wormhole. Recently two out of seven attempts to establish a connection to M3D 335 had failed, but if and when the wormhole chose to engage, everything worked. Hammond hoped it stayed that way. The last thing he needed was Simmons or Crowley accusing him of trying to sabotage their bright idea. The moon—ten days into the program ’335 was uniformly referred to as Parris Island, though Hammond still refused to adopt the habit—had been declared a training and selection camp for a whole new USMC unit. The jury was still out on how to name the child. Crowley had mooted ‘Force Galaxy’. The various proposals circulating among SGC personnel weren’t quite as swanky. George Hammond favored ‘Space Cadets’. Whatever it was going to be called, it would be an elite attack force operating independently from Stargate Command. As promised, Hammond had received Colonel Simmons’ report within a day of the NID agents’ sudden departure. It had been delivered in person and informed him of the fait accompli. Use of the red phone was discouraged. Given the outcome of that exercise two weeks ago, the President had already approved the report’s central suggestion and ordered the SGC to assist in any way necessary. To underline the point, Simmons had brought along ten Marine instructors and technical specialists who, accompanied by SG-3, had gated out to set

up camp on ’335. During the past week, fifty men had deployed with equipment and supplies. At this moment, another ten troops were gathered in the gate room, waiting to embark. Some distance apart stood Teal’c and Dr. Fraiser, the only people not to jump sky-high when the wormhole engaged. Colonel Norris, who apparently was joining this trip, approached them. There was a brief exchange of words, then he glared up at the control room window, spun around, and stormed out through the blast door. Seconds later Hammond heard him clattering up the stairs. “General! I’d requested an—” Norris caught sight of Sam Carter in full gear and bellowed, “You gotta be kidding me! Not her, too?” “We’re good to go, sir,” Major Carter interjected sweetly. “Wait a minute! I’m not prepared to drag along God knows how many babysitters, including one who isn’t even… American!” “Would you prefer a Russian babysitter?” Hammond smiled when Norris broke into the expected grimace. “It can be arranged, Colonel.” “I don’t—” “You requested an expert on off-world medicine and alien diseases to brief your men. I gave you my CMO who, incidentally, is this world’s leading authority in the field. However, Dr. Fraiser is not a combatant, and I’ve therefore decided to have Major Carter and Teal’c escort her.” Which wasn’t entirely accurate, though Hammond felt no stirrings of guilt. Major Janet Fraiser was an experienced soldier and more than capable of looking after herself. The simple truth was that SG-1 still remained on stand-down, and Teal’c and Sam Carter were getting a little stir-crazy. A friendly snoop around the Marine camp would take the edge off it—and give General Hammond a better idea of what he was up against. Norris blustered some more. “My men are perfectly—” “I’m sure they are. My men are going to accompany Dr. Fraiser, and that’s my last word, Colonel!” “General Crowley will hear of this.” “I’m counting on it.” Knowing he’d won this round, Hammond briefly berated himself for deriving quite so much satisfaction from it. Then he shot a pointed look at Sam Carter. “You have a Go, Major. Godspeed.” “Thank you, sir!” The clipped nod was a military caricature, as was the brisk parade ground turn she executed. Norris seemed to suspect that somehow he was being sent up, but he had no time to dwell on it. Major Carter headed down the stairs, and he all but ran after her, determined to beat the SGC team through the gate. Minutes later the embarkation room was empty, the wormhole winked into oblivion, and the iris slid shut across the Stargate, obstructing the view of gray concrete behind. Hammond gazed at it for a moment, as though it might present him with an excuse to postpone the return to his office a little longer. Nothing was forthcoming. Stifling a sigh, he made for the staircase and the inevitable. The inevitable had been sitting in the in-tray on his desk for ten days. So far he hadn’t even opened it. Neither had anybody else, given that the words Private and Confidential leered from the envelope in a sprawling hand that was only too familiar.

He could guess the contents, which was reason enough to take a leaf out of their author’s book and pretend he wasn’t getting all his memos. Unfortunately, ten days was pushing the limits, and the only miracle was that Jack O’Neill hadn’t called him yet. Hammond slid behind his desk and into the sumptuous orthopedic chair, which, as so often, offered no real comfort. Private and Confidential stared at him accusingly, and he finally fished the letter from the tray, poked a finger under the envelope flap, and started ripping as despondently as he knew how. Halfway through, a knock rattled against his office door. “Come in!” he called, grateful for a reprieve, however temporary. The door opened on an uncommonly bashful Dr. Jackson. He’d abandoned the eye patch for an eggplant raccoon effect that suggested he’d led the mother of all bar brawls. “Am I interrupting, General?” “Sit down, son.” Hammond waved at a chair and waited. Somehow he had the feeling that anything as overtly aggressive as a question would make Daniel run for the hills. Whatever had prompted this visit, it wasn’t a request for a pay raise. As Dr. Jackson settled in the chair, his gaze fell on the semi-opened letter Hammond was still holding, and he obviously recognized the handwriting too. “Not getting all your memos, sir?” George Hammond smiled momentarily, then turned serious again. “I take it you know what’s in here?” “Kind of. Jack, uh, dropped a hint.” He paused, cleared his throat for the third time since entering the room. “General, supposing it is what you and I think it is… What are you going to do?” Good point. Then again, Dr. Jackson’s points usually were. If truth be told, Hammond’s gut instinct and fondest desire was to feed the damn thing to the shredder unread and plead ignorance, but he couldn’t say that, much less do it. Instead he opted for rational if unpleasant ground. “You got a few minutes, Dr. Jackson?” Daniel nodded, eyebrows arching in surprise. “Let me tell you a story.” The only thing to set the tale apart from hundreds like it was the fact that Lieutenant George Hammond had been there and come out the other end. It had happened during his first—no, second—tour in ’Nam. They’d got reports, fabricated by the Viet Cong as it would later turn out, that a whole platoon was nailed down in the jungle, some fifty miles northeast of a village whose name he didn’t care to remember. His CO, an experienced officer, had decided to go in. And in they’d gone, twenty men in all, including Colonel Freeman, and parachuted straight into a killing ground. Only three had made it out alive: a private who subsequently lost his arm, Lieutenant Hammond with a bullet in his leg, and Freeman who, by some cynical twist of fate, had suffered only minor injuries. “You might say it was a clear error of judgment on Freeman’s part.” Hammond leaned back in his chair. “He relied on the intel, because confirming it would have cost too much time while good men might be dying out there. There never was a choice, really, but he’d committed a horrific mistake all the same.” 32

“What became of him?” Dr. Jackson asked softly. “Freeman was, without a doubt, the best commanding officer I ever served under. Bright, gutsy, unconventional, a tactical genius, and he cared about his people to the point of running himself into the ground—and if you think that sounds like somebody we both know, you’d be right. But he made a serious mistake in a situation where he couldn’t afford to make any.” Suddenly Hammond had no wish to go any further. Funny how the grief was still fresh, so many years later. Funny how things didn’t seem rational at all anymore. “What became of him, sir?” “He retired. He felt that he’d failed us, which was a mortal sin in Freeman’s book. According to him, he didn’t deserve to lead anyone. He never said it in so many words, but we knew. The irony was, we’d never stopped trusting him. A few months later he drove his car into a ravine. They only found bits of him among the wreckage.” “So you’re going to run this”—Daniel nodded at the letter clutched in Hammond’s fingers—“through the shredder?” Occasionally, the young man’s mind-reading abilities were a little on the disconcerting side. Nevertheless… “I’m afraid I can’t do that, son. I can’t—” Dr. Jackson got up, stared through the window out into the briefing room, fists jammed into pockets, shoulders rolling with tension. “Jack didn’t—” Suddenly he whipped around. The words tumbled out like water through a breaking dam. “General, this is strictly between you and me. Jack didn’t want us to take it further, and Sam and Teal’c agreed. But I’m not military, and sometimes I find that military notions of honor, ethics, idealism, whatever, get in the way of facts.” His good eye narrowed, and he grinned. “Go ahead, sir. Don’t choke on it.” Sound advice. Hammond let out the chortle that had been creeping up his throat. “That’s a fascinating observation, Dr. Jackson, especially coming from you. And yes, we’ll keep it in this office, if that’s what you want. Go on. What are the facts?” “You can’t let Jack go, sir. Because he didn’t make a mistake.” “That’s not the way it—” “The exercise was rigged. Jack never stood a chance. It was a no-win scenario, designed to get that Marine base up and running… I think.” “Care to elaborate, Dr. Jackson?” Five minutes into the explanation, General Hammond had lost any desire to chortle and silently congratulated himself on sending Major Carter and Teal’c to Parris Island. A saffron expanse with cinnamon clouds filled what little was visible of the sky, and Teal’c instantly succumbed to a sense of oppression. The Stargate was located at the end of a deep, narrow gorge. Either side rose vertical rock walls, a hundred meters high or more. Looking up it was impossible not to conceive the notion that the planet above was about to crush its moon, settle on the surface, and suffocate anyone trapped inside the valley. “Should have brought a helmet,” muttered Major Carter.

Dr. Fraiser seemed unaffected. “Oh, I don’t mind. At least you know you’re offworld.” This probably was true, though Teal’c found it difficult to share the sentiment. Most of his life had been spent off-world on one journey or another; indeed, twice in his one hundred and four years he had been forced to make a home of planets not his own. His birth-world was long lost to him, but at least among the Tauri he had found acceptance and kinship. Behind them the wormhole disengaged with a finality that appeared to disturb even Colonel Norris. “Welcome to M3D 335, Marines!” he shouted, a little too forceful, a little too loud. “Sir! Thank you, sir!” came the reply, molded into uniformity by years of training and rigid discipline. The same training and discipline had compelled these ten young men—mere children by a Jaffa’s reckoning—to arrange themselves in a perfectly straight line and to adopt a stance that evoked pride and a readiness to fight. In truth, they were afraid. Teal’c saw it in their eyes. They were apprehensive of this alien landscape that looked nothing like the Moon they had learned about in their schools, and, more than that, they were apprehensive of admitting their fear. Because they were afraid of Colonel Norris. The discovery was unsurprising. Unlike O’Neill, Colonel Norris did not inspire trust or confidence. Unlike O’Neill, Colonel Norris would never consider punishing himself for failing those who relied on his guidance. “What are you waiting for?” he barked. “Move out! On the double!” A ripple of hesitation traveled down the line, barely perceptible and instantly overridden by the mechanisms of unquestioning obedience. They took up formation, five rows of two, and broke into a brisk trot. Colonel Norris followed them, an avenger alert to any faltering in their step, any sign of uncertainty. O’Neill would have been attuned to their apprehension and, knowing that, of all the ways to combat fear, laughter was the most formidable, would have found some joke, absurd and out of place. And they would have loved him for it. “Don’t look like that, Teal’c.” Major Carter had concluded her routine test of the DHD and gave a crooked smile. “Colonel O’Neill’s the exception, not the rule.” “I am aware of it.” He was, after all, Jaffa. And while Master Bra’tac’s leadership closely resembled that of O’Neill, there were many, too many, who acted like Colonel Norris. “It is one more reason to discourage him from his present course.” “Good luck,” Dr. Fraiser replied dryly. “You know what he’s like. Anyway, I suppose we’d better catch up with Colonel Congenial and his cohort.” “Did you say catch up?” enquired Major Carter, evidently not relishing the idea of an unwarranted run. The moon’s atmosphere was thinner than Earth’s. “Well, I would have said overtake, but what’s the point in embarrassing them?” “If you put it that way. I mean, two women and a guy who’s not even… American?” Grinning, Major Carter adjusted her backpack and set out. Twenty minutes later Teal’c passed the Marine camp’s outer perimeter at a steady jog, barely having broken a sweat. Perhaps it was petty, but he felt he owed O’Neill this victory, inconsequential though it might be. At any rate, it would not have

occurred had Colonel Norris not spurred his men to a faster and faster pace once he noticed the SGC team’s approach. Ignoring the bemused faces of the guards, Teal’c came to a halt and turned to review the situation behind. Dr. Fraiser had fallen back a little, but Major Carter kept abreast of the two Marines in the lead, not forcing a race but making plain that she could match any further increase in speed. Not so Colonel Norris. Teal’c conceded another stab of furtive pleasure, propped himself on his staff weapon, and awaited the column’s arrival. While Major Carter and Dr. Fraiser broke left to join him, the Marines slowed and reformed their line. Some doubled over, gasping for air. Most faces had reddened dangerously. It had been foolish to subject them to such exertion without permitting them to acclimatize first. “Well, that was bracing.” Major Carter dragged her forearm across her face to soak up sweat. “I need a shower.” “That was idiotic,” panted Dr. Fraiser, echoing Teal’c’s own thoughts. She bent over, hands pressed onto her knees, and tried to catch her breath. “The kid over on the right looks like he’s gonna crash! This kind of thing’s alright for you two; you guys swap atmospheres twice a week, but for the rest of us…” “So why didn’t you slow down?” “What? And let him win?” “Attention!” Colonel Norris tone had lost some of its vigor, breath failing him mid-word. Nevertheless, the ten men pulled themselves up straight, some with obvious difficulty. Their unease was overt now. With reason. “You are pathetic! So I’m telling you right now, shape up or ship out! If you want to lose, join the Air Force. They love losing. I don’t.” “Yeah, we noticed,” murmured Major Carter. “You’d rather cheat.” Colonel Norris’ rant continued, the men before him shrinking under every word. Suddenly a hand clasped Teal’c’s shoulder, and an amused voice noted, “Wow! You people sure put a burr up his ass!” “Hi, Warren.” Turning to the speaker, Dr. Fraiser gave a soft laugh. “I don’t think we were supposed to keep up with them.” “Oughta know better, Doc. After all, they’re Marines. Teal’c. Carter. Nobody told me you guys were gonna join the fun.” Major Warren, himself a Marine and SG3’s commanding officer, peered in the direction from where they had come. “Where’re Colonel O’Neill and Dr. Jackson?” “Neither of them’s fit for active duty yet,” Dr. Fraiser answered, a fraction too quickly perhaps, wishing to avoid the subject. However, the major failed to notice. “My men and me still can’t believe that General Custer got the upper hand on O’Neill of all—” “Who?” asked Major Carter. “General Custer.” Major Warren grinned. “Norris’ nickname. Not that anyone’s ever risked calling him that to his face.” “Didn’t realize that Custer was a Marine.” “Neither’s that chicken shit,” he replied. Then his gaze roamed over their packs and weaponry. “Anyway, welcome to Parris Island, folks. Let’s find you a place to bunk down, whaddya say?”

As with most linguistic peculiarities of the Tauri, it had taken Teal’c some time to establish the workings of this last phrase. It did not, in fact, require the addressee to say anything. Agreement was a foregone conclusion, as indeed it was in this case. They abandoned Colonel Norris who was still punishing warriors better than himself for his own weakness and followed their guide along a broad, dusty trail toward the camp. Teal’c was unsure at which point during the moon’s diurnal cycle they had arrived, but it seemed to be getting close to nightfall now. The hues of the giant planet above had gradually changed to greens and blues and bathed the landscape in a sallow light. “One good thing about this place, it never rains, though temperatures actually are pretty moderate,” said Major Warren. “No open bodies of water, of course, just a few shallow wells. Most moisture precipitates as morning dew.” This much was evident. The moon’s surface showed no sign of climatic erosion. Its only remarkable geographic feature was the rock formation where the Stargate was hidden. Once past it, they had emerged onto gently rolling plains, dotted with tussocks of short, wiry grass and low brush and extending as far as the eye could see. The encampment was visible for miles around, which posed a danger to say the least. There was a further ramification, and Teal’c found it odd in the extreme. Was it not the purpose of a facility such as this to accustom warriors to a variety of terrains? A little later they reached the central square of the camp. One side was taken up by a large metal hut, along the others stood several smaller structures. East of the square stretched rows of tents. Nothing differed from the arrangements Teal’c had come to expect in a Tauri camp, except— “That’s the commissary cum class room,” said Major Warren, pointing at the large building. “You’ll be doing your lecture in there, Doc.” Dr. Fraiser nodded, and his finger moved on, indicating the smaller huts. “Ammo, communications, sickbay, storage, and lavatory… Uh, I guess we gotta think of something for you ladies. At the moment it’s Boys Only.” He broke into a sudden grin. “Something’s telling me you’re gonna be hugely popular.” “Not if Colonel Norris has anything to do with it,” Major Carter groused. “Is there someplace where I can set up a temporary lab? We’ve been having trouble establishing a wormhole to ’335, and I’d like to check it out.” When she noticed the major’s frown, she hastily added, “Nothing to worry about. Probably to do with the moon’s orbit causing some intermittent gravitational distortion. You won’t get stuck here, Warren.” “I damn well hope not! But yeah, we can rig something for you. I’ll see to it in the morning.” He jerked his chin at the tents behind the square. “Right now quarters are more important. Nights can get chilly. Carter, I hope it’s okay if you and the doc share a tent, and Teal’c, you can move in with me, unless you mind.” “I do not, Major Warren.” “Alright then, let’s go.” Teal’c was about to follow when he realized that Major Carter had remained in the same spot, looking around in puzzlement. It was then that he recognized the cause of the subliminal worry that had bothered him since arriving here. The camp was uncommonly quiet. Too quiet. 36

“Warren?” asked Major Carter. “Where is everybody?” “Where is he?” Dr. Jackson muttered under his breath, hopping from foot to foot and wishing he’d brought a jacket. Even at the end of April, Colorado nights could get fresh. He stabbed the doorbell again, listened as the chime ding-donged through the house and faded. Nothing. Okay, so maybe he should have tried calling first, but Daniel seriously doubted that the soft-spoken Japanese lady with the clock fetish would pass on messages. At least the truck was parked in the driveway. Chances of Jack having shot off to Minnesota were slim, which came as a relief. A few months later he drove his car into a ravine. He couldn’t have gone for a run either. Janet Fraiser had said the bruising would get worse for a couple of weeks before it got better, and even Jack’s masochism had limits. Probably. Knowing him, he was standing on the other side of that door, pulling faces and whispering Shoo! Daniel was in no mood to be shooed. General Hammond’s little story had left him rattled, which explained why he was here—Jack’s admirable efforts to avoid communication notwithstanding. He shivered, blamed it on the night temperatures, and gave up his attack on the doorbell in favor of a reconnoiter around the house. The living room curtains were open, and as he peered in from the deck he saw a light in the kitchen. Just a light, no movement. No movement anywhere else either. Unless Jack was hiding in the basement, he— “D’oh!” Daniel leaped back onto the walkway, tore around the corner and past some bushes, and ducked under the low-hanging branches of a tree to get to the ladder. Halfway up, the beam of a flashlight exploded in his eyes, and a disembodied voice asked, “Drew the short straw, Daniel?” Had he mentioned that, in addition to a finely honed sense of personal accountability, Jack O’Neill possessed the stupendous talent of making Dr. Jackson spit tacks in two seconds flat? “Dammit, Jack! I can’t see a thing!” The beam slid away to illuminate the rungs and allowed Daniel to discern Jack’s silhouette above. The rooftop should have been the first place he looked. “You must have heard me down there. I don’t suppose you could have shouted or something?” “I knew you’d figure it out eventually, and if not…” The silhouette gave a shrug. “You want me to leave?” “Would it make a difference?” The beam danced back into Daniel’s face and was followed by an appreciative whistle. “Shame you haven’t got green eyes.” “What’s wrong with blue?” “Well, one’s red. If you had green eyes, you’d pass for Milton’s devil. One red, one green.” Squinting, Daniel heaved himself onto the roof deck and swatted the flashlight away. “You’ve read Paradise Lost?” “The abridged version. Though it doesn’t explain why the guy’s running around looking like a traffic light.”

“There’s an abridged version?” “One word: Oops.” Daniel hadn’t really meant to groan—the less encouragement Jack got, the better—but it slipped out anyway, if only because Paradise Lost seemed strangely apposite. “Remind me not to discuss literature with you. Ever.” Without warning the flashlight winked out and left Daniel blinking. He heard footsteps, the scrape of metal on wood, and knew that Jack had retreated into the chair by the telescope. Gradually the neon spots in front of Daniel’s eyes receded and solid darkness crumbled to shades of gray as his night vision returned. Jack sat in his chair, hunched over the eyepiece, fingers playing with screws to adjust angle and magnification. The tension in his shoulders and neck gave him away. Half of this was show. All of it was screaming Leave me alone! If Jack had looked any less lonely, Daniel might have taken the hint. As it was, he leaned against the railing, folded his arms across his chest in hopes of warding off the cold, and waited. “So, if not literature, what do you want to discuss?” Jack said at last. “Should we discuss anything?” “You tell me.” Great. They could engage in the question and counter-question game until the cows came home. Better to hop off that particular merry-go-round. And maybe just being here was enough. “Looking at anything nice?” “Check it out.” Jack shifted over and surrendered the eyepiece; It was a pale beige speck on black velvet. Stifling a yawn, Daniel straightened up and returned to his perch. “Exciting.” “Yeah. It’s Io.” Their solar system’s own version of Netu. Not unlike the stuff you saw when you opened a medical textbook under “A” for “Acne”. Only worse. Usually even the wildest zits didn’t spontaneously erupt. This did. Close up, Io’s surface would be a heaving, angry melee of reds and oranges and black. “A moon of Jupiter, right?” Daniel asked, curious to discover where this was going. “Innermost moon. Jupiter’s gravitational pull exacts huge pressure on Io. Its crust shows a tide of up to one hundred meters. The moon gets squeezed out of shape, hence the eruptions. I know how it feels,” Jack added and resumed his study of Zit Central. Daniel bit his tongue. Hard. You didn’t have to be a genius to guess that Jack’s empathy with a volcanic moon wasn’t open for discussion. “What are you going to do?” he finally asked. “About what? Io?” “Yourself. What are you going to do with yourself?” “Don’t know. Move to Minnesota, start up a fishing business.” “There are no pesky fish in your pond, Jack.” “Yeah, well, that’s par for the course, isn’t it?” It was trailed by another silence, vast enough to swallow the Rockies whole. After an eternity and a half, he enquired, “So, did you draw the short straw?” “No straws. Why do there have to be straws?”

“I don’t see Teal’c or Carter.” “I’m sure they would have loved to join this lively little get-together, but they’re off-world.” For once the reaction was completely unguarded. Jack’s head snapped up, and his voice held an odd mix of disappointment, regret, and more than just a trace of jealousy. “Where?” “You miss it already. It’s only been two weeks. Jack. How long do you plan for this retirement thing to last?” The dark shape by the telescope stiffened, fingers clenching in an effort to contain either a sharp reply or the longing to be out there and do what he’d always been meant to do. “Technically I’m still off-duty. Where?” “M3D…” A premature mosquito zeroed in on Daniel. He slapped at it, slapped again, missed again. “335.” “Of course! M3D 335, the marvel of the galaxy—Goa’uld fashion malls, Tollan karaoke clubs, and Nox hairdressers. Care to be a little more specific? What’s there?” And that sounded completely like Jack. Whether he liked it or not, leadership was second nature. If he couldn’t physically command a team, he did his clucking vicariously. “Daniel? What’s there?” “A Marine base.” “A what?” The temptation to spill everything he’d told General Hammond was so strong Daniel had to grit his teeth against it. It would be counterproductive. Any mention of the exercise having been rigged would be a red flag to Jack, who’d already made abundantly clear that, for him, ignorance was no excuse. The trick lay in feeding him just enough information to keep him interested. As long as he was interested, he’d stay away from cars and ravines. Daniel pushed himself off the railing. “Look, I’m freezing my butt off up here. Let’s go downstairs, have a beer, and I’ll fill you in.” “I thought you didn’t like beer.” “I’ve been known to make exceptions for friends.”

CHAPTER FIVE

“I think this’ll do, ma’am.” The corporal, detailed by Major A. Warren, twisted and squirmed and yanked until he and the table he was carrying popped free of the frame and catapulted through the door. They’d cleared out half a storage hut—well, mostly they’d just pushed and piled crates together—to make space for a desk and Sam Carter’s laptop, a few other bits of electronic equipment and a small naquadah generator to supply the power. It still looked like a derelict woodshed, but this was as good as it got and besides she’d only be stuck here for a day. “This’ll do nicely, Corporal,” said Sam. “Anything else I can get you, ma’am?” She squinted at an indecisive patch of brightness in the side wall. “A bucket of hot water and a rag to clean the window, maybe.” “I’ll do that.” His indignant tone implied that the mere idea of an officer fiddling with buckets and rags was a court-martialable offense. He made to leave, hesitated, turned back. “And ma’am?” “Yes, Corporal?” “Yesterday… that was pretty damn impressive, ma’am.” If truth be told, the compliment came as a surprise. It could as easily have been resentment, given that he was one of the new arrivals who’d got their heads ripped off after that impromptu little race. She decided to return the favor. “Look, Corporal, under normal circumstances you guys would have outrun anyone but Teal’c. Once you’re acclimated to the thin air, you’ll leave the rest of us standing.” “That’s good of you to say, ma’am.” He shot her a crooked grin, blushed. “’Cos Colonel Norris—” “Corporal, between you, me, and the crates, Colonel Norris had no right to treat you like that. If you were any less fit, you’d have keeled over.” “Thanks, ma’am. I mean it. I…” The blush deepened, and he stared at her with open adoration until he caught himself. Whereupon, and despite the fact that the major wasn’t covered, he saluted crisply and fled the hut. Sam clamped down on a laugh and set about installing her equipment, soon accompanied by the squeak of leather on glass. Her corporal was spit-shining the window. Just over an hour later—the squeaking had ceased by then—she sat on a crate, elbows propped on the desk, chin on her fists. “Okay, that is weird,” muttered Major Dr. Carter, ogling the graph on her computer screen. “What is?” asked a voice from the door. “Morning, Sam.”

She gazed up and at Dr. Fraiser, swathed in the freshly-scrubbed glow of a recent shower. “Hi, Janet. Anybody ever tell you that you snore?” “Hey! Being field personnel doesn’t give you the right to get mouthy.” “It does, according to Colonel O’Neill.” As soon as it was out, Sam wished she hadn’t said it and forced a smile. Very few things got past Janet. “You miss him.” Of course she did. Who wouldn’t? But, to quote the Colonel, she and Janet had had this discussion, and they were not having it again. “Parris Island to Sam. Come in, Sam.” Head cocked, Janet gazed at her. “This anything to do with why you got up in the middle of the night?” “Uh, no. It’s just… Pull up a box and look at this.” “How about you scoot over?” Janet squeezed next to her onto the crate and stared at the innocent graph. “So, what’s so remarkable about this?” “Nothing. That’s what’s remarkable.” Despite the claustrophobic skyscape it created, ’335’s primary fundamentally consisted of a lot of hot air. It had nowhere near enough mass and was too far away to mess with the moon’s orbit. “Obviously gravitational fluctuation isn’t what’s interfering with the gate.” “Is that good news or bad?” “Don’t know yet.” Sam shrugged. “I’ll just have to go back to the drawing board.” “Yeah, but not now. I’m about to go sing for my supper, and I need moral support.” “What about Teal’c?” “I haven’t seen him since last night. Warren says he took off at first light, probably reconnoitering.” “Oh.” Sam was surprised that Teal’c hadn’t let her know. Then again, this wasn’t a mission, and she hadn’t been put in official command. “Well, the problem’s not gonna go away.” Closing the lid of her laptop, she rose. “Shall we?” Though the planet overhead had gone back to its killer satsuma look, the day was pleasant enough. A gentle breeze sent streamers of dust swirling around the square, and halfway across Sam decided that joining Janet had been a very good idea. From the commissary drifted the unmistakable aroma of fresh coffee. Inside, somebody had arranged tables and chairs classroom-style, facing the short wall and a blackboard. Janet took one glance, sighed, and dragged her feet to the lectern. Leaving her to her fate, Sam veered off to the bar to get that coffee. As she sipped the hot, bitter brew she watched the Marines trickle in, ignoring a mix of come-on grins and hostile glares—the latter from Colonel Norris and his cronies. Yesterday they’d been told that two thirds of the men were assigned to night maneuvers, which explained why the camp had been so quiet. This morning it did seem a little more populated, but there were sixty men supposed to be permanently stationed here. Right now, the commissary held just over thirty and all chairs were occupied. So where was the rest? Not interested in alien diseases? Major Warren marched to the front and introduced Janet. The response was a polite smattering of applause and a nucleus of hoots and whistles that pinpointed SG-

3’s position. A scowl at his team clashed with the emcee routine, and Warren said, “Over to Dr. Fraiser.” Janet was a natural. Within five minutes she had the Marines eating out of her hand. Of course, the subject wasn’t exactly boring. Glowy, aerobic, intelligent bacteria that proposed to take over Earth and eat a conveniently skewered officer alive while they were at it… That one had been a joyride and a half, thank you very much. Sam, who’d witnessed the effects of most and fallen victim to a representative selection of alien organisms, wasn’t really keen on a trip down memory lane. “The trick actually is lateral thinking,” said Janet. “Sometimes what you’d consider to be a common garden variety remedy can be life-saving. How many of you suffer from allergies?” Twelve hands went up. “Got antihistamines on you?” “Yes, ma’am,” chorused a few voices. “Congratulations. You guys won’t get the Neanderthal bug. About four years ago…” Sam had sudden visions of sweet little tank top numbers, locker rooms, and alpha males, felt a hot tingle across her chest and up her neck, and knew she’d just gone bright scarlet. If Janet so much as breathed a word of who and what had been involved in that incident, she’d kill her. Mercifully, at that moment the door opened and a few stragglers trudged in, temporarily interrupting the lecture and bringing the attendance total up to thirty-six. Right behind the stragglers entered Teal’c, and Sam didn’t like the expression on his face. At all. She’d seen it only a few times over the years, but on each occasion the crap had started raining from on high shortly thereafter. Putting down her coffee mug, she began sidling over to him. A barely perceptible shake of his head stopped her, and Teal’c casually leaned against the wall by the door, pretending to be enthralled by the lecture. Sam followed his lead, picked up the mug again, and tried to look fascinated between halfhearted sips. From the corner of her eye she watched the newcomers move up along the counter. The guy in front was about four meters away from her when she sensed it and instantly knew what had rattled Teal’c so much. It wasn’t really a feeling, at least none she could describe. Some kind of amorphous tug, a forgotten scent, a caress of cobwebs, everywhere and nowhere and completely unique. Like other people could taste the coppery tang of blood, Sam could taste naquadah. She tasted it now. The three Marines who ordered coffee at the bar carried Goa’uld. Conrad’s upper lip curled a little as though he’d smelled a stealthy fart. His version of a sneer, quite understated for a Goa’uld. It was directed at the jerry-rigged communication globe, which admittedly wouldn’t win any beauty contests. The design was courtesy of Harry Maybourne who’d been in the habit of tossing alien gadgetry at his renegade geeks and saying Make it work! The geeks had been incapable of reproducing Goa’uld anti-grav technology, and so, instead of hovering gracefully, the globe was hardwired into some sort of metal briefcase.

Frowning, Simmons decided to ignore the design flaws. “What are you waiting for? Turn it on!” “Yes, my lord.” Conrad’s sneer lost any trace of understatement. “Considering that I can make your head blow off at the push of a button, I suppose that, yes, I am your lord. And you heard me. Turn it on!” As Conrad activated the globe, a flare of his eyes incinerated the smirk. Obedience didn’t sit well with him. Opaque gray began to swirl, like ink in water, and cleared to show a vast, ancient hall half eaten by the jungle; a ruin, long abandoned, throttled by creepers snaking up pillars and across stone tiles and pierced by dazzling shafts of sunlight that broke through a rotting roof. For a moment Simmons could almost feel the heat and humidity. At the far end of the hall, past a wide archway, cascaded a waterfall, cool counterpoint to the steaming rainforest. Then a man came into view, dragging himself from pillar to pillar, nails torn and fingers bleeding. The tan desert uniform that made him stand out like a sore thumb among the greenery was ripped and streaked with dirt and blood. Down his back and under his arms spread dark patches of sweat, gluing fabric to skin. His face wasn’t visible, only an island of hair left after a crew cut, stiff with filth and perspiration and bristling from a square skull. He twisted a little to check his six, and Simmons could make out the insignia on his sleeve. One of the very first group. If he’d survived out there for ten days, he was more than capable. The indigenous life forms were a force to be reckoned with, but of course there was an added bonus, just to turn this into a real challenge. And weed out the candidates who weren’t suited. This one had salvation in his sights now. Ten more meters, and he’d be home free. “He shall not succeed,” Conrad declared with supreme certainty. Around his mouth played a cold smile, advertising that he looked forward to failure and, beyond that, to failure’s consequences. “How many more, Simmons?” “As many as it takes, not that it’s any of your business!” The man, so close now that Simmons saw sweat beading between stubbly hair and rolling down the sunburned neck, raised his head. The face was coated in mud— a hopeless attempt at camouflage—and scored with white lines where perspiration had dissolved the dirt. White patches, too, around eyes slitted with fatigue. Suddenly the eyes went wide. He finally had seen the stealthy predator lying in wait for him. Conrad had been right—or maybe not. It all depended on what the man would do next. There was a hint of motion. Was he reaching for the submachine gun he carried? Perhaps. Perhaps he even aimed it. But then his mouth opened, showing bloodsmeared gums and teeth; likely the result of trying to live off the land. Most types of local vegetation disagreed with the human physiology Please, he mouthed. Please. “Wrong answer. Thank you for playing,” Colonel Frank Simmons said dryly and through a sliver of dissatisfaction. Passing it on would help. He turned to Conrad. “Switch it over. I want to talk to your ‘mistress’.” “I wish to—”

“Switch it over!” An occasional demonstration of power could only be salutary. The Goa’uld had to be kept in his place. Besides, Simmons enjoyed his frustration. Gray swirls obscured the image in the globe and, moments later, parted on Nirrti, whose expression was as sour as Conrad’s or his own and for pretty much the same reasons. She must have deliberately underdressed for her visit to Earth. Back then she’d worn a nine-year-old’s idea of a ninja costume—just as well, considering the alternatives. Today it was a pink sari with heavy gold trim, whose gaiety contradicted the lady’s mood. “Is this what the Tauri call elite soldiers, Simmons? They would not survive a Jaffa child’s training.” “Forgive me if I doubt that.” Simmons shrugged, unwilling to submit to the exquisite tedium of her bullying. “How many so far?” “Eleven.” She stared at him blankly. For a second he wondered if she was lying, then discarded the thought. The men were loyal to him, to Earth, and the only way for her to reap the benefits was through full cooperation. He’d made that clear enough. But eleven were deplorably few. “What about the others?” The image switched to a view of the outer wall of the ruins and the native predators fighting over a mangled body. When Nirrti reappeared she was smiling. “Alas.” “All of them?” he asked. Her turn to shrug. “Some of them are still alive in the forest. I do not know how many. They will either reach their destination or they will die. Unless, of course…” She stepped aside. “I have taken the liberty of retaining one of the rejects. He pleases me.” Standing behind her was a man in his mid to late twenties, clad in a pair of voluminous oriental pants of blue fabric and little else, apart from leather bands around his biceps and neck. The well-muscled chest was bare and scored with angry red welts—marks from claws or fingernails—and the hairstyle gave him away. One of the Marines. “Come here,” crooned Nirrti, and he took a few steps toward her, knelt, eyes downcast. She languidly slipped a hand under his chin, yanked up his head. “Who am I? Tell me who I am!” “The one I love. The one I die for. The one whose will is my command.” On his face stood an incongruous blend of abject terror and mindless devotion. Simmons recognized the look. He’d seen it in the eyes of one of the escort agents, the morning after that same agent, a strapping blond farm boy, had spent the night supposedly guarding Nirrti’s quarters. Favoring prevention over cure, Simmons had ordered the man shot. Now he ground his teeth. What if she did the same thing to others? Then again, would it matter? She’d already given him eleven Jaffa, and as she’d said, this one was a reject. “Dispose of him,” he ordered, careful to keep his voice even. “He pleases me.” “He doesn’t please me. Dispose of him!”

“Why?” Nirrti’s features contorted to a moue that clashed with the cold, dangerous gleam in her eyes. “Because this isn’t part of our agreement. And because,” he added to sweeten the demand, “you’ll be otherwise engaged. Your… additional request?” “Yes?” “It’s about to be fulfilled.” “I am pleased.” The smile flashed up with positively alarming speed. At the same time, the palmpiece of the ribbon device on her left hand and wrist began to glow. Slowly, sinuously, the hand came up until it hovered above the Marine’s head. The light intensified, the beam melting into his forehead, soaking his upturned face in golden radiance. Simmons was beginning to think that it actually looked quite beautiful. Then the man’s mouth opened in a silent scream. Seconds later he collapsed, blood trickling from his nose and ears. “You drive a hard bargain, Simmons,” said Nirrti, her voice holding a note almost akin to regret. Without warning, gray ink obscured the globe. End of conversation. When Frank Simmons glanced up, Conrad was sneering again. It was late—very late—afternoon by the time the last members of the audience stopped flirting with her and filtered out the door. Dr. Janet Fraiser wished she hadn’t touched the camp cook’s idea of a gourmet lunch. To make matters worse, in the course of two lectures and two Q&A sessions she must have drunk at least five gallons of water. While it hadn’t stopped her throat from going sore with talk, it’d made her bloat like a dead fish. Slipping behind the lectern, she unbuttoned the top of her pants. Better. It would get better still once she grabbed a chance to declare the lavatories Girls Only. Which had to happen within the next ten minutes, else— “Dr. Fraiser!” Janet swallowed a groan and wondered how she could square it with the Hippocratic Oath to give Colonel Norris a lingering disease. First, do no harm. Mono sprang to mind. She’d do the universe a favor by putting the guy out of commission for a couple of months. Then again, he’d probably turn out to be a carrier and not go symptomatic. It’d have to be something more reliable. Rabies, maybe… For the time being, she pasted on a grimace that might or might not pass for a smile and watched Norris slalom around orphaned chairs; a cadaverous six-footer in desert fatigues and thinning hair who looked like he had yet another axe to grind. “Colonel. What can I do for you?” “Dr. Fraiser. That was”—bony nose twitching, he gagged on the praise long enough for Janet to contemplate botching a Heimlich Maneuver—“useful.” “Thank you,” she said noncommittally. Past his left shoulder she saw Sam Carter closing in on them. Weird, actually. She hadn’t expected Sam to stay all the way through. “Was there anything else, sir?” “Yes. When are you and your escort planning to leave?” “Well, I was going to—”

“We’re leaving tonight.” Sam had arrived, and her voice held an edge that preempted any contradiction. “As I understand, General Hammond had agreed to Dr. Fraiser delivering two lectures, nothing more.” “Already tired of our hospitality, Major?” Norris grinned an ugly little grin. Sam returned it in kind. “That would be virtually impossible, Colonel. Fact of the matter is, I ran some polarization spectroscopy measurements early this morning. The moon’s gravitational acceleration shows a distinct abnormality, which may or may not affect the functioning of the Stargate. Unfortunately, I can’t complete the tests with the equipment I’ve got here. I’m guessing that you and your men intend to get back home at some point, so it’s in your own best interest if I return to the SGC and continue my work.” By the end of this speech the colonel’s complexion had assumed an attractive shade of green. Dr. Fraiser, on the other hand, was hard pushed to sustain her expression of polite interest. For one thing, she rather enjoyed the sight of Norris just about wetting himself. For another. Dr. Samantha Carter had just completely contradicted her previous findings. “I’ve been assured that this was safe!” yelped Norris. “Hammond himself told me—” “General Hammond had no reason to suspect a problem. The MALP readings came back normal. The odds of this happening are one in a—” “You’re suggesting we evacuate?” Norris’ splutter notwithstanding, he seemed to be hoping for an affirmative answer. “I’m not suggesting anything, sir,” Sam replied, her studied indifference unnerving Norris even more. “There’s a chance that it’s nothing at all. However, you might want to order everyone back to camp, just in case.” “Yes. Yes, I’ll see to it. I’ll also detail an escort for you.” “That won’t be—” Norris was already scrambling for the exit, practically at a run. “—necessary.” Staring after him, Sam Carter expelled a slow breath. “Get your things, Janet. We’re leaving.” “What’s polarization spectroscopy?” “Something some guys at JPL are working on,” she murmured absently, still watching the door. “Sounds great, but they haven’t cracked it yet.” “You are aware that you just lied to a superior officer?” “He’ll get over it. Besides, I’d dispute the superior part.” Suddenly she whipped around, face tense, a small muscle in her jaw twitching with impatience. “What the hell are you waiting for?” Up until this moment Janet Fraiser had nursed the admittedly improbable idea that, somehow, this was an elaborate hoax at Colonel Norris’ expense. Of course, Major Carter wasn’t in the habit of playing practical jokes. Nor did she snap at her friends—unless she was hip-deep in command mode. Like now. “For God’s sake, Sam, what’s—” “Later, Janet. Let’s go.” She started moving toward the door. Dr. Fraiser scooped up the lecture notes and hurried after her. “Where’s Teal’c?” Like some of the audience, the Jaffa had left after lunch.

“Keeping an eye on some… relatives. He’ll be meeting us at the tent.” Relatives? And what exactly was that supposed to mean? On the other hand, it might be wise not to examine the question too closely. It opened up some nasty possibilities. Without noticing, Janet picked up her pace. Out in the square, Marines flocked in small gaggles to chat and enjoy the spectacle of ‘planetset’—not that the ugly menace ever really did set. It just slipped two thirds of the way under the horizon and turned brown. Norris was nowhere to be seen, but at least he hadn’t galloped through camp, hollering To arms! To arms! The place still seemed drowsily quiet, and Janet suddenly realized that, if there was a command barrack somewhere, Warren had omitted to point it out during their guided tour yesterday. So who was running this show and from where? Later, she reminded herself with a last wistful glance at the lavatory and stumbled after Sam. When they got to their tent, Teal’c was there already, posted outside and looking grim. Okay, grimmer than usual. For the first time, Sam’s poise faltered. “Where are they?” she hissed softly. “Together with five others they set out in the direction of the Stargate approximately thirty minutes ago,” Teal’c replied just as quietly. “I considered it imprudent to follow.” “Crap,” muttered Sam, a worried crease between her eyebrows deepening. “As O’Neill would say, we shall traverse that viaduct when we reach it.” Jack O’Neill wouldn’t say anything of the sort, at least not in these terms, and Teal’c damn well knew it. It had to be a Jaffa joke. His attempt at lightening the mood was partially successful. Dr. Fraiser grinned. Major Carter probably grinned internally. “Can you stay with Janet, Teal’c? I need to fetch my equipment. After the yarn I’ve spun for Norris, somebody might get suspicious if I leave it.” He solemnly indicated the aluminum case strapped to his already sizeable backpack. “I understand the naquadah reactor is part of the onsite facilities.” “Should have known.” Sam gave a hint of a smile. “Thanks, Teal’c.” His only reply was a wordless incline of the head. During the five minutes it took to gather their belongings from the tent and fling them into backpacks, Sam waxed equally chatty and her movements were stiff and over-controlled. Finally she asked, “Ready?” Strictly speaking, it wasn’t a question. Janet hadn’t heard a question mark, and that was the straw that broke the camel’s back. “No! I gotta go pee, if it’s the last thing I do.” The doctor’s flippant remark kept playing in Teal’c’s mind, mostly because he dreaded her being proven correct. In the cold actinic light of the planet the rock formation looked like one of those forbidding glass-fronted edifices the Tauri liked to erect. Directly ahead yawned the black chasm at whose end waited the Stargate. Not for the first time, he marveled at the purpose of its location. What had been the intent of the Ancients or Goa’uld who had put the Chappa’ai there? To hide it? Or to control access?

Without a doubt, the answer to the riddle would be given sooner than Teal’c preferred, and so he turned once more to survey the plain behind them. Far off twinkled the lights of the Marine camp, drowning in a sea of blue gloom. This moon knew no true night, which might be of advantage before long; even sparse light was better than none. Out on the plain, nothing stirred. Or at least nothing stirred that should not have, and he still puzzled over the whereabouts of the men absent from the camp. In the course of his search this morning, he had been unable to find any tracks, save those that led to the Stargate valley. Even now, after Colonel Norris presumably had undertaken to recall the troops, the only discernible movement and sound came from dry grass brushed by the night breeze. And from the four Marines who constituted their escort and followed at a short distance behind Teal’c. Their presence, though unwelcome, provided some vague reassurance. None of them was anything more than he seemed. The gamble of waiting until the end of Dr. Fraiser’s lectures and leaving in a normal manner appeared to have borne fruit. Their departure had drawn stares from a handful of men gathered in the camp square, but otherwise it had attracted little notice. However, this could have been a ruse as ingenious as the one that Major Carter had devised to hoodwink Colonel Norris. They would not know for certain until they entered the gorge. Teal’c turned back and broke into an easy lope until he caught up with his companions. “Anything?” asked Major Carter. “Nothing as yet. Although I fear that we may be intercepted at the Stargate.” “You and me both, Teal’c.” Her fingers closed more tightly around the P90 strapped across her midriff. “You and me both.” “I know you sensed them.” Dr. Fraiser had been apprised of the situation as soon as they had left the camp and its potential eavesdroppers behind. Though seasoned with a pinch of disbelief, her mood had improved since. “But are you sure they sensed you—or Teal’c, rather?” “You can’t help sensing it, Janet,” replied Major Carter. “It’s just there. It’s, the naquadah in the Goa’uld’s blood. They get close enough, the alarms go off, no matter how preoccupied you are, and it works both ways.” “Perhaps Dr. Fraiser’s question is valid.” Teal’c had not considered this before, but it was entirely possible. “The men did not act like Goa’uld. There is another way of carrying a symbiote, Major Carter.” She looked at him sharply. “Jaffa? You’re saying those guys are Jaffa?” “Not true Jaffa.” They did not wear tattoos to visibly brand them a system lord’s slaves. But, again, there were other ways. “Jaffa can be created, as you are well aware.” “Don’t remind me,” she glumly said over Dr. Fraiser’s soft groan. After a second, Major Carter added, “Even if they’re Jaffa, it doesn’t make any difference. They would have sensed you.” “Indeed. However, when I first encountered them on my return to the camp this morning, they did not react to me. I thought it was subterfuge.” Teal’c pondered this briefly and continued, “But if these men were not brought up Jaffa, they would lack the training and skills to fully benefit from the advantages a symbiote bestows. They may not have known what it was they were sensing.” 48

“Teal’c, I wasn’t brought up Jaffa—or Tok’ra for that matter—but I still know what’s what.” “Because, in addition to the symbiote and that protein marker, you got Jolinar’s memories. Unabridged edition,” the doctor interjected. “Dr. Fraiser is correct. You did not have to learn, because you were blended. These men are not.” “Well, let’s hope you’re both right. Because, if they’re Goa’uld after all and realized we’re on to them, I’d really hate to meet them in there.” They had reached the entrance to the gorge, and Major Carter brought up her weapon. The beam of its small, strong flashlight bored ahead into a passage barely four meters wide and seamed by rock too sheer and smooth to be scaled. From here it would be approximately five minutes’ march to the Stargate. Teal’c’s every instinct balked at the notion of proceeding into this trap, but there was no choice. He accelerated his pace to take point. A minute smile audible in her voice, Major Carter stopped him. “Teal’c, if you don’t mind, I’d rather have you watching our six. It’s that whirling the staff weapon and shooting backward trick.” “I see.” And he did. Their escort was an unknown quantity. For a while they walked in silence, all senses keyed to their surroundings. Teal’c heard the whispered footfalls of a small night creature scampering to safety at their passing; the far-off cry of a bird of prey and its mate’s answer; the muted voices of the men behind him, discussing a variety of subjects, from commanding officers to sexual exploits. The Marines, at least, felt at ease in this place. Suddenly Dr. Fraiser murmured, “Sam? Did you warn Warren?” The flashlight’s beam jerked up a fraction and settled back onto their path, telling Teal’c that Major Carter had flinched. He knew why. It had been the only possible course to take, but it went against the one rule O’Neill held immutable, for himself and for his team. Nobody gets left behind. “No,” she said softly and then, more to herself than to Dr. Fraiser, “I couldn’t risk it. We’ll brief General Hammond and be back with reinforcements by tomorrow evening at the latest. If Warren’s involved in whatever this is, he’d have stopped us. If he isn’t, he’ll be safer not knowing.” The gorge took a sharp bend to the left, the rock barriers narrowing. Teal’c remembered this feature. Past the bend, the ravine would open abruptly into the crater that held the Stargate. If there was to be an ambush, it would be his task to prevent the Marines behind from closing the narrows. Ahead, Major Carter and then Dr. Fraiser disappeared from view and his immediate protection. An impulse to race after them screamed to be obeyed. Teal’c curbed it, fell back even further so as not to lose the Marines, and followed the shimmer of the light that hovered along rock walls like a ghost. His world shrank to this dancing glow, the white plumes of his breath rising in the air, and the echoes of footsteps before and behind. No sight or sound out of the ordinary. When he emerged from the narrows, a familiar sensation leaped at him with painful acuity. Major Carter and Dr. Fraiser stood motionless, staring at the Stargate and the three men posted in front of it. Only three. The five who had accompanied them were 49

nowhere to be seen. Deep within his pouch, Teal’c felt a ripple; the symbiote stirring, affected by its carrier’s tension—or the proximity of its kind. This time the men did react. Their weapons came up. One of them, tall and heavily muscled, slowly walked down the steps of the dais. “Where the hell do you think you’re going?” he demanded, his submachine gun aimed at Major Carter. “Drop the Rambo act, Poletti! They’re going home!” The voice at his back very nearly startled Teal’c into a jump. Their escort’s leader stepped out in front of them. “You hear me, you dumb guinea? It’s Johnson. Stand down and breathe, will ya?” Approaching, Mr. Poletti swore, lowered his weapon, and signaled his comrades to do the same. “Jesus Christ, Johnson! Nobody told us you guys were coming!” “Yeah, well. Nice to know you weren’t asleep.” “Who’d wanna sleep in this creepy shit-hole?” Mr. Poletti seemed to reflect on his choice of words and, with a nod at Major Carter and Dr. Fraiser added, “Sorry, ma’am, Doc. Uh, I really enjoyed that talk of yours by the way. Shame we had to leave.” “Thanks,” Dr. Fraiser said weakly, her tone betraying an uncertainty Teal’c shared. Of one thing, however, he was certain now. These men were not Goa’uld. A Goa’uld never would have countenanced an insult, no matter how jocular. They had to be Jaffa therefore—although it still did not explain by whom and for what reason they had been created. “Look, gentlemen, it’s getting a little chilly, and I’d hate to catch a cold. So, if it’s okay with you?” Major Carter motioned at the DHD, her weapon lowered but still unsafed. “Of course, ma’am.” Mr. Poletti moved aside, smiling. “All yours.” While Major Carter stepped to the DHD and dialed, the other two men moved down from the dais and joined Mr. Poletti in a tight group. Their backs were turned on Teal’c, who could hear them whispering. It disturbed him, but there was no palpable reason to interfere. One by one the chevrons locked with reassuring clanks and the wormhole established in a splendid flare of power. Teal’c released a breath he had been unaware of holding and, as soon as Major Carter had entered the ID code, nudged Dr. Fraiser forward. The doctor hurried past the men, up the dais, and disappeared in the event horizon. Over by the DHD, Major Carter had turned to face him, her eyes issuing a silent command. This time he refused. He would not leave M3D 335 until he knew her safe. A slight nod conceded his choice, and she went to follow Dr. Fraiser. “Well, it’s been a pleasure,” said the escort’s leader. Teal’c inclined his head in acknowledgment and walked toward the Stargate, acutely aware of the Marines’ stares. Their eyes seemed to be burning his back, but the men never moved. Then he was at the dais, and four large strides carried him up the steps and into the wormhole. The fractional part of his higher consciousness that always remained alert to the journey registered the wrongness now, and it was screaming. Untold forces tore at

him, intent to shred his every fiber until he was nothing but dust drifting in the vastness of space. Wrapped in icy agony, he howled his defiance, was still howling when the Stargate spat him out onto spongy ground, wet and redolent with the stench of decay. Impossibly far above him the wormhole disengaged, leaving the Stargate a gaping hole in the forehead of a face carved into ancient masonry. Above that mask soared the impenetrable canopy of a rainforest. Groaning, every joint aflame, Teal’c pushed himself to his knees. A few meters to his right lay Dr. Fraiser, unconscious, bleeding from a head wound. She had struck the root of a giant tree. Not far from her, Major Carter was drowsily straggling to her feet. He saw her eyes widen when the realization hit home. “Where the hell are we, and where’s the DHD?” “I do not—” As silent as it was ferocious, the attack came without warning.

CHAPTER SIX

Reward Pathway: Areas of the brain stimulated while a subject is engaged in pleasurable activity. General Hammond contemplated a heap of unattended paperwork—taller by three inches than the sheaf of documents in his out-tray—and wondered why vital matters such as parking permits for visiting officers couldn’t be authorized by someone of less exalted rank. Then again, the whole point of doing paperwork was to avoid witnessing the deployment of another twenty Marines to ’335. If Crowley kept going at this clip, he’d run out of Earthside personnel by the end of next week. Holding on to that thought, Hammond peeled a two-page document from the heap, this one a request from SG-11 for permission to wear sneakers instead of combat boots on archeological digs. Apparently artifacts, when trodden on, responded better to sneakers. Well, that was painless. Next. Next was an advisory to the engineering unit, which shouldn’t have landed on his desk in the first place. From underneath peered Colonel O’Neill’s letter, still half-opened, the way he’d left it after Dr. Jackson’s remarkable disclosure. In the four days since that conversation, Hammond had called in a handful of chits and launched some very hushed enquiries into General Crowley and his connections to the NID. So far it’d got him zip. He’d even formalized Major Carter’s rather inspired call to her friend, Augustus the Unpronounceable, only to receive a terse email from Mr. Przsemolensky’s superior at the NRO, informing General Hammond that there were no satellite pictures of the Colorado Springs area taken at that time. He didn’t know what annoyed him more: the man’s low opinion of his mental faculties—Cheyenne Mountain rated twenty-four hour satellite surveillance— or the sheer frustration of it all. Still, something needed to be done. Hammond tugged at the letter. Its tattered flap caught on a paper clip, with the result that the whole stack of correspondence keeled over and spilled onto the floor. The ensuing blue streak was interrupted by a rap on his office door. “Come in!” grunted Major General George Hammond, doubled over in the chair and gathering the equivalent of a medium-size forest from the carpet. “Ah. I’ll come back later, sir.” Hearing the voice, Hammond shot up abruptly. The impact of his skull on the underside of the desk loosened a tooth or two. Biting back another curse, he bellowed, “You’ll do nothing of the kind, Colonel! Sit down!” By the time Hammond had extricated his head from under the desk and straightened up, Jack had eased himself into a chair. He wore civvies, looked like he’d been subsisting on a diet of coffee and next to no sleep, and did a great job of 52

avoiding Hammond’s gaze. Which admittedly wasn’t all that difficult, given the mess. Jack studied it intently and finally looked up. “Bad day, General?” “I’ve had fourteen of them so far, and counting.” “The Marine base?” Seeing his CO’s frown, he added, “Don’t blame Daniel, sir. He couldn’t help it. I plied him with beer until he talked.” The grin he was aiming for didn’t quite materialize. “It’s my fault, isn’t? If I hadn’t blown the exercise, they—” “The exercise was rigged.” The anger coiled behind Jack’s eyes erupted. “I told them I didn’t want it to go any further! Who was it? Carter? Daniel?” “I may be an old fool, son, but there’s still a thing or two I can figure out for myself.” Technically, it wasn’t a lie. Hammond felt rather pleased with himself. Not least because it took the wind out of Jack’s sails. To an extent. “Like what, sir? The infamous grappling hook theory? I suppose it didn’t occur to you or my team that it’d be a piece of cake if you did it in two stages: get up to the gallery first, and from there to the girders.” “And on the gallery you hook onto what? An antique railing that broke when you fell against it?” “It could have been a weak spot. Look, sir, one thing that’s not gonna happen is me trying to avoid the consequences by accusing another officer.” At that moment the klaxons went off. Jack’s hands closed on the armrests of the chair, as though he were about to push himself up and run downstairs to the control room. And then it passed. He sank back, a look of defeat in his eyes. George Hammond had seen that same look thirty-odd years ago, and it scared the hell out of him. It always was the best who were hit hardest, because you didn’t get to be best if you didn’t care. And yes, you knew that death was on the cards every time you led a team out there. Jack knew it as well as Freeman had known. But seeing people you care about die—even in an exercise—because of a mistake you’ve made… now, that was a whole different ballgame. After that, you ended up doubting your choice of toothpaste and breakfast cereal, and never mind your ability to lead a team. Aware of the scrutiny, Jack tried to dodge Hammond’s gaze again. He zeroed in on the wad of papers rescued from the floor and, as luck would have it, the letter lay topmost. “I’d been wondering why I hadn’t heard from you. It’s why I’m here, really.” “I tried to call you a couple of times, Jack. Kept getting a lady who speaks Japanese.” “Oh.” For a second he looked genuinely puzzled, then he nodded at the letter. “You should read it, sir. I’m saying some pretty nice things about you.” “It’s the rest I’m worried about. I—” The knock was vigorous enough to make the door hinges rattle. “That’s gotta be a Marine,” muttered Jack. “Behave, Colonel.” Hammond stepped on a grin. “Come in!”

It turned out to be an admirable piece of divination on Jack’s part. The door opened on the somewhat crumpled shape of Major Warren, fresh through the gate and obviously in one big hurry. “General Hammond. Colonel. Sorry to butt in, sirs.” Grimacing, Jack hauled himself from the chair. “I’d better—” “Stay put, son! We’re not finished yet,” snapped Hammond and, just to be on the safe side, waited until the delinquent had sat back down before addressing Major Warren. “Good to see you back, Major. What can I do for you?” The expression on Warren’s face plainly said that, whatever he’d expected, it wasn’t this. “Major Carter’s lab results, sir. Has she come up with anything yet? Colonel Norris is getting a little antsy and… Well, he wasn’t real happy about you letting those troops gate out to ’335.” Whatever General Hammond had expected, it wasn’t this either. “Care to run this by me again slowly? I’ve got no idea what you’re talking about. Major Carter, Teal’c, and Dr. Fraiser have been on ’335 for the past four days and, frankly, I’d been hoping to have at least my chief medical officer back by now.” The expression intensified, graduated from What the heck? to Oh crap! The old man’s cracked, and Hammond felt a chill crawl up his neck and raise his hackles. Finally, carefully almost, Warren offered, “Sir, they gated back here three days ago.” “What?” It had come from Jack. “You heard me, sirs. They stayed for one night; next day the doc gave her lectures, and then Carter told Colonel Norris that she’d found some kinda gremlin messin’ with the gate… Well, she didn’t say it like that.” “Wouldn’t have thought so,” Jack grumbled. Momentarily thrown, Warren cast a sidelong glance at him, sniffed, and continued, “Anyway, she told the colonel she needed to get back here PDQ to figure it out, and that’s when they left.” Hammond’s mind was racing through a whole kaleidoscope of possibilities, from busy signals and secondary gates in cold places to people’s matrices being stored inside the gate in ways even Sam Carter could barely explain, let alone remedy. None of these possibilities seemed desirable, and so he latched on to the obvious. “Major, they’re not here. Take my word for it. So I’m suggesting they never left. There was a minor anomaly, but that only affected outgoing—” “General, they had an escort, and those guys saw them go through the gate. As a matter of fact, the…” Warren trailed off, mystified by the antics of Colonel O’Neill who’d leaned forward, reached out, and gingerly removed an unopened letter from the base commander’s desk. “Something on your mind, son?” Hammond asked quietly. “I’d like to return to active duty, sir.” The letter disappeared into the inside pocket of Jack’s leather jacket. “You sure about this? What about your ribs?” “My ribs are fine.” “Uhuh. I can tell by the way you move like you’ve swallowed a poker, Colonel.” “It’s the deportment classes I’ve been taking. Sir, please. I want to go to ’335.”

“With respect, Colonel!” spluttered Warren. “If you’re implying—” “I’m not implying. I’m noting that two thirds of my team and Dr. Fraiser have gone missing. Now, I don’t know about you, Major, but I’d like to find out what the hell happened.” “Yes, sir. Sorry.” Going by the way Jack heaved himself from the chair, the deportment classes hadn’t yet advanced to Lesson Two, Rising Gracefully. He hid a wince, turned to Hammond. “Request permission to gate out to M3D 335, sir.” Past experience showed that Jack wasn’t going to take No for an answer. Besides, Hammond had got what he wanted, and if circumstances had been less worrying, he’d have called the situation a Godsend. “Permission granted, Colonel. Take SG-3 and—” “No. Sir. I’m going on my own. It’s a whole moon full of Marines, General, and I don’t… I don’t want to put anybody else at risk.” The toy huddled in a corner, and he pretended to be asleep. He was not. His eyelids fluttered in an involuntary spasm. Fear made it impossible for him to relax. This attempt to deceive her was the first vaguely amusing act he had conceived in three days. Perhaps she should not have revived him. But it had been worth it, if only for the knowledge of having flouted the will of that arrogant human, Simmons. Besides, it could be remedied. Quite easily, in fact. Nirrti nudged the toy with her toes and found a fleeting spark of enjoyment in the way a shudder racked his body and his eyes snapped open on a look of pure terror. Maybe not? No. It was time for something new. She turned away, heard the toy sob with relief, and smiled. The room was splendid, and this was an opulence that would never pall. Intricately carved pillars of wood, hard and small-grained and with a reddish sheen, supported a low ceiling. From the beams hung curtains of sheer silk that partitioned the space into a gently swaying maze in all shades of red and orange. One entire wall was taken up by a mirror of polished silver. Savoring the whisper of cool fabric on her skin, she parted the curtains to step through and study her own image. How long had it been? Seven hundred years? Eight hundred? She barely remembered. The host’s body had worn well, still retained a fair measure of its former owner’s youthful allure. But it would not last, could not last. She thought of the Hankan girl, the boundless possibilities and power open to a hak’taur, and felt the rage rise again. A new host was another debt the Tauri owed her. A touch on the bluish gem set in her ribbon device released an invisible burst of energy that altered the molecular structure of the mirror. Like oil welling from a vent, viscous grayness pooled and obscured Nirrti’s reflection, then cleared to a jungle vista. Deep within a closed-off part of her cortex, her host dreamed of home, while she watched, once more and as if through a window, the events of three days ago. The Chappa’ai, inset in the outer wall of the temple, fills with liquid azure gleam, and Simmons’ gift is flung from the wormhole in a graceful arc. Once, twice, the healer spins in the air and comes down heavily on the root of a thousand-year-old tree. In coarse tan clothes, not in white today, she lies motionless. Stunned? Dead? The latter would be inconvenient. But no. She lives. Near her slack mouth a leaf 55

shivers under shallow puffs of breath. Nirrti, too, breathes again, entranced by the stirrings of the leaf. And so she starts when a second traveler seems to fly straight at her. For a second their eyes meet, black on blue, although the woman, tall and blond, is unaware of it. Nirrti sees shock, pain, and a gleam of avid curiosity. This intrigues her—more than the leaf—because curiosity would have been her own first instinct. Curiosity and the need to examine just how the Chappa’ai could have deceived them to such a degree. Maybe she will reveal the secret. After all, this Tauri woman probably has saved Nirrti’s life by staying the healer’s hand and she will bear closer scrutiny. In good time. Is it possible that Simmons has given more than he intended? For the moment, though— Incredibly, a third figure hurtles from the Chappa’ai. Now Nirrti is sure that Simmons has not intended this. Greed and caution would not have permitted it. For the third is male, but not human. He is Jaffa, the shol’va who denied his god. A memory of Apophis’ fury makes her smile. She herself relishes the illusion of divinity and the terrified veneration it brings, but she is a scientist and has never been deluded enough to believe her own lie. The key to immortality is, after all, knowledge not godhead. Mouth gaping, teeth bared in a scream of rage and pain, the shol’va hits the ground hard. When, at last, the Chappa’ai winks out, the blond female is the first to discover that they cannot leave this place. One terror compounded by another. And it is only the beginning. What the Tauri and even the Jaffa cannot hear are the vibrations that whip the beasts into a frenzy and lure them to their prey. Hungry and swift-footed, they fly from their lair, dark, bristling shapes unlike anything the subjects have ever seen. And, as planned, the subjects are driven apart in the struggle for their lives. “A gift. My, what a gift,” Nirrti murmured as the image dissolved into the silver surface of the mirror. Slowly, her fingers curled and clenched in a fight to resist temptation. She wanted to bring them in now, break them now, use them now. But it would not be the same. The true triumph lay in their willing surrender when the horrors out there had piled despair upon despair and even servitude seemed preferable to further endurance or lingering death. Exhaling, she relaxed, clapped her hands once. One of her beautiful new Jaffa entered instantly and quietly, anticipating every whim of his mistress, as a good servant should. He had brought a flowing red robe, held it out for her approval, and she raised her arms and permitted him to clothe her. When he was done tugging folds into place, he took a step back, eyes averted, as though he had anticipated this need, too. For a few moments she studied him, appreciated the nervous play of muscles under milky skin dotted with freckles, the almost imperceptible flaring of nostrils when he sensed her gaze on his face and the new tattoo on his forehead—the golden shape of a dove in flight. At last she reached out, fingertips caressing the sensitive flaps of his pouch. “You please me, child,” she said. His smile was beatific. “You honor me, Lady Nirrti.”

“Yes, I do. The question is whether you deserve it.” She increased the pressure of her touch just enough to suggest the potential for exquisite pain, but not enough to hurt him. Yet. Only the slightest squirm betrayed his desire to back away. Excellent. He had been one of the first, and he had come far. “How can I make myself more deserving, Lady Nirrti?” Yes, he had come far indeed. But was it far enough? “What is your name?” she asked. “Master Sergeant Charles Macdonald.” She almost laughed. Such a waste of time, Tauri names. “Master Sergeant Charles Macdonald, I have a task for you.” “Please, Lady Nirrti, name it.” “Dispose of the thing in corner.” “As you wish, Lady Nirrti.” He disappeared through the curtains, and she curbed an impulse to follow and watch. Let him believe he was trusted. Shadows danced and from behind sheer fabric rose the toy’s cracking voice. “Sarge, what are you doing? Hey, come on, Sarge. It’s me, Gonzales. Gonzo… Come on, you remember me. You gotta remember me! Please, Sar—” When her Jaffa returned to drag his prisoner before her, the toy’s eyes, unearthly pale in an olive-skinned face, appeared to scream. “How do you wish me to dispose of him, Lady Nirrti?” “Take him to the temple. And”—she smiled at the thought—“make my pets jump.” BDUs and combat boots felt uncomfortable and alien after a couple of weeks of jeans and sweatshirts and walking barefoot round the house. Bull, Jack decided, suddenly angry at himself. It was neither the BDUs nor the boots. He felt uncomfortable and alien. Though not usually prone to fits of nostalgia—God knew he had little enough reason to be— right now he wished he were in his twenties again, a stupid kid off on his first mission, young and eager and full of himself. Not exactly ideal either, but preferable to middle-aged and jaded and full of something else. “Chevron five engaged,” chanted Sergeant Harriman. Five? Thirty-nine, more like. What the hell was taking so long? The gate’s inner ring seemed to be spinning at half its usual speed and doing it on purpose. “Chevron six engaged.” Harriman’s contributions to this interior monolog were a tad predictable. Why couldn’t he say something interesting like, The balalaika-type thing’s just got a triangle clamped over if! “Chevron seven locked.” Locked. Now there was a plot twist! Jack O’Neill watched the event horizon roar out at him; a blaze of glory that momentarily froze all thought. It always did. Given a chance, he’d look at it all day.

Of course it didn’t stand still long enough. It sloshed back into a luminous membrane across the gate and sent blue reflections rippling around the room. At which point Hammond was supposed to say Colonel O’Neill, you have a Go or Godspeed, Colonel or both. He didn’t. Now what? Clutching his P90 until he thought either the gun or his fingers would snap, Jack refused to turn around. The last thing Hammond needed to see was him getting jumpy. Getting jumpy? Just stand here and breathe, O’Neill. He’s gonna say it. Any second now… He didn’t. Instead the blast door rumbled open. The noise was followed by the clatter of boots on concrete. Hurried boots on concrete. There was only one person who regularly entered the gate room at this pace. Something to do with time-keeping issues brought on by a propensity to lose himself in dictionaries or similarly riveting literature. “Come to kiss me goodbye, Daniel?” The boots clattered to a halt beside him. “Uh, nothing personal, Jack, but no.” Jack whirled around, stared up at the control room window, just in time to see Harriman take cover behind his computer screen. Hammond next to him didn’t move; a burly, implacable rock who stared right back. “General, we had a deal!” “That’s right, Colonel. The deal was for me to pretend I’ve never received a certain piece of correspondence and let you go through that gate. But you either go with Dr. Jackson or not at all.” The SFs dotted around the room began to look interested, and Jack began to feel no longer uncomfortable and alien but slightly nauseous. “Daniel’s half blind! He’s not fit for duty!” “Neither are you,” Daniel muttered helpfully. “Want me to poke your ribs?” “Daniel—” “They’re my friends, too. I know the score, Jack. I’ve always known it. I was the one who took us to Abydos without having the coordinates to get back, remember?” Oh yes! How could he possibly forget? The first of three supremely joyous occasions on which Daniel Jackson had died. Jack’s nausea ratcheted up a notch. If he ever went through that wormhole, he’d sail out the other end barfing. “Is this supposed to convince me?” The response didn’t come in quite the way Jack had anticipated. Instead of waiting for General Hammond’s blessing, Daniel took the steps up to the ramp two at a time and steamed for the Stargate at flank speed. “Dammit, Daniel!” It was pointless, and Jack knew full well that he’d lost this argument. He only had two options. One—staying put—was absolutely out of the question. And thus Colonel O’Neill, for the umpteenth time, found himself running after an enterprising archeologist. Halfway into the event horizon, he heard Hammond’s voice rattle over the PA. “Godspeed, Colonel.”

Very funny, sir. The thought melted into rushing, star-streaked black. Stumbling out onto orange air and looming rock, Jack decided that the trip through the wormhole had left him more than usually chilled. His first impression of M3D 335 didn’t help. The gate sat at the bottom of some humungous hole, which in turn was capped by a planet that looked set to belch in his face. Apart from the Stargate, the only access to this tomb was by parachute or through a narrow gorge opposite. And if the locals didn’t want you to come calling, they either whacked you upside the head as soon as you poked your nose into said gorge, or they lined up around the crater to shoot fish in a barrel. Or both. Jack sensed a cold prickle of paranoia seep up his back and tried to ignore it. At least he had an answer to Question Number One. Part of him had been hoping for a forest with thick underbrush to hide in. But, given the terrain, there was no way in hell that Carter, Teal’c, and the doc could have gone anywhere, except where Warren said they’d gone. Unless the escort had been lying. But why would the Marines lie? Why indeed? The query brought to mind his team’s interesting theory about the— “DHD seems okay to me,” said Daniel who’d crouched in front of the DialHome-Device, tinkering with some diagnostic tools. Now he stowed them and rose. “Of course, Sam’s the expert, but I can’t see anything wrong with it.” Daniel’s words sounded flat and sank like lead under the weight of the planet above, but at least they’d fractured the eerie quiet of this place. Too much quiet. No wind, no trees, not even a pebble clattering down the cliffs. Why were there no guards at the gate? Warren had mentioned guards, three of them. Maybe only after dark. Maybe. But still… “Jack? Are you listening?” “Yeah. The DHD’s fine.” Which led straight to Question Number Two. Harriman had corroborated that the gate malfunction was intermittent and affected outgoing wormholes only. That aside, whatever had caused the problem, it seemed to have resolved itself. During the past few days there’d been no further glitches. So why would Carter concoct some cockamamie tale to scare Norris? “…unless she had a damn convincing reason to get off this rock,” Jack mused aloud. “A reason she didn’t want to air to the gentlemen of the Marine Corps.” “What are you—” Daniel stiffened suddenly and turned toward the gorge. “Shh!” “I wasn’t saying anything.” “Shh! Somebody’s coming.” Almost of its own accord, Jack’s hand flew into a sequence of signals. A swift memory flashed up, of the last time he’d done it and what had happened next. When the image receded, he already was running for a boulder to the left of the gorge, keeping an eye on Daniel who’d headed right as ordered. On the dusty ground their footfalls made virtually no noise, but the tracks would be visible. Couldn’t be helped. They’d just have to be fast. Pretending that the activity his ribs currently engaged in was normal, Jack skidded into cover behind the boulder. Nice view. Across the mouth of the gorge he saw Daniel peer around the edge of his rock, giving a thumbs-up. Like Carter, just

before—Throttling that thought, Jack brought up his gun. The metallic click of the safety coming off sounded perversely loud. He flinched and forced himself to go still. Never easy for him, more difficult than ever now. The gorge funneled noises into the crater like the an old gramophone tube. Out there the ground had to be covered in shale. He could hear the crunch of boots on stone. Four sets of boots… probably. Voices. No. One voice. Barking commands. In English. He relaxed a fraction. It ruled out Goa’uld or Jaffa—unless they were practicing. Well, they had to sometimes, right? Daniel had heard them, too, raised an enquiring eyebrow, and Jack shook his head. Before he indulged in prospects of a happy reunion with his pals, the Marines, he needed to have these guys where he could see them—or draw a bead on them if necessary. The footfalls grew louder. The visitors were moving fast, carelessly, which was good news one way or the other: they either had no idea that somebody was expecting them, or their intentions were as pure as driven snow. Okay, there was a third way, and it wasn’t such good news: they knew they owned the goddamn place. Eyes fixed on the cleft in the rock wall, Jack spot-welded the P90 against his cheek and waited. A minute later Larry, Curly, and Moe trotted into view, as unwholesome as he remembered them from the exercise. Behind them followed their CO. All things considered, a bunch of Goa’uld would have been preferable.

CHAPTER SEVEN

He stands right at the lip of the Stargate, arms flung wide, body curved in a fluid arc, like a gymnast on a beam, trying the impossible, trying to regain balance broken. She knows what will happen, knows that gravity will win, because that’s what gravity does, it always wins, immutable and uncaring. A tiny shiver ripples around the edges of weightlessness, grace collapses, and he falls. Watching helplessly, she knows what awaits him on the ground, knows because— “No!” Sam Carter shot from a sweat-soaked, troubled sleep, listening to the echo of her own scream. It shook loose a cacophony of chatters and screeches in the canopy above. Curled up into a tight ball, she nestled further into the crook between bole and branch where she’d spent the night and wished she were invisible. Gradually the noise died down, and no one found it necessary to check on the intruder or come shopping for breakfast. Thank God for small favors. After a few minutes of listening for stealthy approaches, she decided it was safe and awkwardly uncoiled. In the process she discovered several muscle groups she hadn’t known she owned—amazing what an extra-hard orthopedic tree could do for one’s anatomy. Not that it made that much of a difference, and these kinks at least would work themselves out once she was on the move again. As for the rest… She rolled up the tattered leg of her pants—damp. Everything was damp and never dried. Had the fabric started rotting yet? Maybe. A flap of material came away under her fingers. Unless she managed to get off this adventure playground sometime soon, she’d be running around in her bra and panties. Of course, in order to get off she’d have to find the DHD, and in order to have any hope of finding that—if it even existed—she’d have to find the gate, and before she did any of the above, she’d have to find Teal’c and Janet. If Janet was still alive. It’d been three days now, three days of plodding through the jungle looking for them. She was less worried for Teal’c; Teal’c had that air of indestructibility—deceptive, yes, but he did have a symbiote— and he knew how to take care of himself, better than any of them. Janet on the other hand… The image popped into Sam’s mind unbidden; her friend sprawled between the roots of one of those giant trees, unconscious, blood trickling from a head wound. It might have been something as relatively harmless as a concussion, but she’d never got a chance to make sure. Those… things… had poured from the open maw of the stone face beneath the Stargate, dozens of them, huge and black and brutal. The nearest way to describe them was a cross between boar and hyena, five feet tall and armor-plated under the bristles. She’d emptied a whole magazine into one of them before it finally broke to its knees, juddering. Even then it’d managed to gouge her

leg. Howling in pain and fury and without time to reload, she’d switched to her handgun, then to her knife. Teal’c had fared a little better. His staff weapon gave them pause if not much else, and he’d been able to reach Janet and cover her. Sam had figured that he might stand a chance if she could draw off at least some of that vicious mob. Ignoring Teal’c’s roar of disapproval, she’d backed away from the pack that was trying to have her for lunch and allowed the hell hogs to chase her into the jungle. Only when they’d suddenly stopped hounding her and disappeared, she’d realized that, of all the mistakes she possibly could have made, this had been eminently the most stupid. Limping for her life, tripping over roots and dodging branches, she’d stumbled into an unnerving green maze without landmarks or any other means of orientation. The attempt to retrace her steps had led her in circles for seventy-two hours. “And now it’s time to greet another fun-filled day,” Sam muttered and tugged at her pants some more. Under the rolled-up end appeared a makeshift bandage; sterile gauze strapped to her skin with tape. She ripped it off, wincing. At least it took care of the fact that she hadn’t shaved her legs. A deep gash gaped from the side of her calf to the back of her knee, and at its center gleamed white bone. It hadn’t even begun to close, and the torn flesh suppurated. So much for antibiotics. Whatever else they killed, giant hog germs obviously weren’t on the list. One more reason for finding Dr. Fraiser. Reaching behind her, Sam fished the medikit from her backpack, opened it, and frowned at the dwindling supplies. With sudden determination she grabbed the disinfectant, unscrewed the cap, and liberally squirted the liquid into the wound. The trick was not to scream your head off. She bit her hand instead, drew blood. It hurt like a son of a bitch. Not for the first time she longingly eyed the two ampoules of morphine. She’d left them untouched so far, knowing she’d need them if she was faced with the choice of either dying of gangrene or losing a leg. When the throbbing ebbed, she packed the wound in sterile bandages again and taped it shut, which started a whole new round of throbs. As she wiped her face, sweating with pain, the back of her hand struck something lumpy high on her cheekbone. “Yuck!” Her stomach flipped, and she got within an inch of crying. Hell, the beasts had made Bogey cry! Just watch African Queen. Of all the disgusting… Leeches! God, she hated them. It wasn’t the first leech she’d picked up, wouldn’t be the last. She’d have to twist it off—and head out of here before this tree threw any more surprises at her. That aside, she needed food and water. Two minutes later, she’d shouldered the pack and was rappelling down a vine, which, coincidentally, was a darn sight more difficult than Tarzan made it look. Largely because it was a good way of flaying your palms if you didn’t do it slowly. Except, slowly required a strength she no longer had. The branch where she’d set up camp was some sixty feet above ground. Gazing down now, Sam figured she’d gone maybe a third of the way, and her arms were already rattling with fatigue. Below her the thin thread of a path snaked through relentless vegetation. She’d found it late yesterday afternoon, followed it until dark, and she’d follow it some more today. Probably not the safest thing to do—although she’d seen no spoor, it had 62

to be a game trail, and if the hell hogs were anything to go by she didn’t care to meet the rest of the wildlife. Then again, her options were limited. “Right. Onward and downward,” she murmured. What was it they said about people who talked to themselves? Another fifteen feet down she froze, not sure if she’d really heard what she thought she’d heard or if the fever was getting to her. No. There it was again. Soft, rhythmic squelching. She knew that noise. She’d been listening to herself making it for the past three days; footsteps on soggy ground. Then a sharp crack. Somebody had trodden on a branch, and he/she/it was coming her way. Now what? Play possum. Easier said than done. Below, the hiker was closing in, and she hung barely twenty feet above his head. If he looked up, he was bound to see her. Like the exercise. The Colonel had drummed it into them with a sledgehammer: Don’t give them reason to look up. Don’t even breathe. And then it’d all gone wrong. Why? She held her breath, ignoring the tremors that racked her arms and shoulders and promised to explode into a full-blown cramp. When the hiker came into view, Sam stifled a gasp. The snazzy hairstyle pegged him as a Marine, but the outfit and weaponry made him something else entirely—unless the USMC had radically changed their dress code and equipment during the past three days. Then, almost directly under her, his step faltered, he stopped, looked around and finally, inevitably, up. She knew why. She’d sensed it practically the same moment as he. It explained the costume. “Well, lookee here.” The upturned face was smirking. Its owner had participated in the exercise. Except, back then he hadn’t worn a tattoo on his forehead. A bird in flight. Whose sign was that? Daniel would know. Sam decided against asking and just stared back at the man. What was his name? Burger? Somebody had called him Burger. King? Surely not Dairy Queen? Macdonald. That’s what it was. Master Sergeant Macdonald. Macdonald kept smirking, and it gave her the creeps. A shaft of sunlight stabbing through foliage picked out the tattoo, lost it again when he raised and primed the staff weapon he carried. “Okay, sugar. Let’s have a little competition, huh? Let’s see if you can climb faster than I can shoot.” The practical part of the competition would be wholly redundant. The state she was in, Sam couldn’t climb, period, and never mind fast. There was no point in even trying. … gravity will win, because that’s what gravity does… And sometimes this was an advantage. Returning the ex-sergeant’s smile, Major Samantha Carter did the one thing he hadn’t expected her to do; she let go of the vine. The impact was crushing, strained ligaments, bruised bone, sent agony boiling up her leg. Her trajectory had been just so, bringing her down smack on top of him. The crumpled heap beneath her lay motionless—dead or out cold, right now she didn’t give a damn. Groaning, she crawled off, rolled him on his back, undid his chest

armor. Lifting the coarse shirt, she found it; an x-shaped incision on his abdomen, edges of the flaps curling up slightly. A Jaffa’s pouch. “Damn,” she whispered, shaken although she’d known it’d be there. At that moment he gave a low moan. Not dead, then. Time to haul ass. She struggled to her feet and, using his staff weapon as a crutch, slipped off the path and into green, dripping undergrowth. Far off, in the direction from where he’d come, rose a scream, human and desperate. “Seeing that you insist on pleasing your whims, Colonel… Then again, I suppose that’s the one thing you actually excel at.” Norris sneered and pointed across a dusty square kept in the moon’s color scheme of titillating beige. “Over there’s the mess. I reckon that’ll do.” Daniel, normally all in favor of a non-violent approach, was beginning to hope that Jack would deck the creep. The needling had been going on non-stop for the entire three klicks from the gate into the camp. Obviously Norris had an ego to massage. Might have to do with the fact that he’d been caught with his pants down and jumped sky-high when Colonel O’Neill and Dr. Jackson had ambled from cover back in the crater. Eyes hidden behind shades, Jack was taking it with a forbearance so out of character as to be positively unsettling. Okay, like it or not, they needed Norris’ cooperation, but usually Jack didn’t let minor issues such as that stand in his way when he was pissed. And he ought to be well and truly pissed by now. “That’ll do fine,” he said, face stony, except for a tense white line around his mouth that betrayed the effort to keep a lid on whatever he felt. “Thanks.” Thanks? Talk about gilding the lily. Daniel had heard just about enough of this crap, and if Jack didn’t put a stop to it soon, he would. “Make yourselves at home in there,” Norris offered; the sudden generosity probably due to his having placed yet another successful kick in Jack’s teeth. “I’ll round up the men who were on escort and guard duty that night. You can ask them if you don’t believe me or Major Warren.” With that he strode off toward a cluster of huts. Jack gazed after him for a moment and then headed for the mess. For once, Daniel resisted the impulse to rush in where angels feared to tread. Given their history over the past months, it might get him punched in the nose. And in truth, he didn’t really want to find out. If this was what he thought it was, he had no idea what to do about it. Besides, now wasn’t the time. The camp was oddly quiet. He’d been to the Alpha Site once, and at the base there folks had been falling over themselves in a constant bustle. Here he’d counted maybe ten people so far, excluding the perimeter guards. By a stack of crates across the square loitered a couple of men, casting furtive glances his way. A third one stepped out of a squat building nearby—latrines, going by the way he adjusted his pants—and he was staring openly, a look of surprise and suspicion on his face. At his nod, the pair by the crates joined him, kicking up dust, and they set off in Daniel’s direction like a bunch of hoodlums spoiling for a fight. They passed him at shoulderbrushing distance. 64

“Hi, Dr. Jackson,” Latrine Boy said. “Hope you’ll enjoy your stay.” Then they were past and disappeared around a shack, which probably was where the good citizens of Stepford kept their wives. And just how had that guy known his name? Conference with Norris in the Fonz’s office? Daniel felt his skin crawl. The place had him spooked in broad daylight. Coffee would help. Definitely. The mess offered all the coziness you would expect from a corrugated steel hut, but at least it was more or less empty. And the smell rising from the coffee machine suggested something freshly ground. Not necessarily coffee, but still. At a table by one of the windows sat two men—one of them actually smiled. Jack had grabbed a perch as far away from them as possible and was staring holes into the wall. Daniel sighed, got two mugs of coffee and wandered over. “Here,” he said, putting a mug in front of Jack. “Not sure about the taste, but it’s the right color.” “Thanks,” muttered Jack, tried a sip, and grimaced. “Love the color.” “Yeah.” Daniel gave a brief grin. Maybe now was the time. After all, the shades had come off for the time being. “Look, Jack, are you gonna tell Norris where to shove it or—” “It’s the only thing that is right about this place.” “—shall I?” “What?” “What do you…?” It gradually dawned on Daniel that every single one of Norris’ snide comments might have missed its target. He started laughing. “What’s so funny?” “Me.” “Yeah, well, that’s a given, but now isn’t the time.” “I know. Welcome back.” The wry look it got him made plain that Jack understood exactly what was on Daniel’s mind and that there was some truth to it, too. But he was back. Daniel grinned again, harder. “Okay. You first.” “For starters, the training. This is a Marine camp, for cryin’ out loud. There ought to be lots of muscular guys running around, singing cadence. So where the hell are they?” It really was only for starters. Ticking off points on his fingers, Jack reeled off a list that proved he hadn’t missed a trick since stepping through the gate. Some of the items—like the conspicuous absence of people—Daniel had noticed himself. Others—the unsuitable terrain, for instance—hadn’t registered. “Ten,” said Jack, left pinky raised. “What’s with the location of this place? I mean, three klicks from the gate and wide open? Does it get any more unsafe? Makes no sense.” “So, you’re—Yuck!” Daniel realized that his coffee had gone cold, which did nothing to improve the taste. “You’re saying that—” “Carter or Teal’c would have picked up on most or all of these things and smelled a rat. Somebody may have taken exception to their keen sense of smell.” “Norris?” Jack snorted. “My good friend Colonel Norris couldn’t find his own ass if you lit it for him. Partly because he’s so far up it. I’m starting to think you could be right, by

the way. Anyhow, he’s a straw man. He hasn’t gone to get the escort or the guard. He’s gone to ask what to do with us. Somebody else is running this show.” “How do you know—” Suddenly it hit Daniel. His eyes narrowed. “You’re starting to think I could be right about what?” “You, plural.” By Jack’s standards the answer was straightforward. Daniel considered a celebratory sip of gross cold coffee but refrained when he saw the door open. Not Norris. His three pals from the square, steering for the table next to his and Jack’s. “What?” Jack had clocked the frown. “The bouncers who just came in?” Daniel murmured into his mug. “I, uh, met them earlier. One of them knows my name, and I swear I’ve never seen him in my life before.” “Should have told me,” Jack murmured back. Aloud he said, “Wonder what’s taking Norris so long.” . As if on cue, the colonel strode in, self-importance wafting behind him like cheap aftershave. “I’m sorry, O’Neill, but the men aren’t available. Their units are conducting night maneuvers. So you might as well head back.” “I don’t think so, Pete.” A thin smile edged onto Jack’s face. “I think I want to wait till they’re back, and then I want to talk to them.” “This whole thing is outrageous,” spluttered Norris. “I told you a half dozen times that they won’t be able to tell you anything new. Chances are that the Stargate malfunctioned, just like Carter said. Too bad, but there it is.” The smile got thinner, verging on predatory. “I want to talk to these men. I don’t give a damn how long it takes.” This wasn’t quite the tune Norris had got accustomed to on their trek from the gate. He hesitated for a second, then snapped, “What is this, huh? Trying to come over concerned or something? You weren’t that worried about your team when you screwed up the exercise, were you?” The look Jack gave him was on a par with liquid nitrogen. Just as quickly as it had flashed up it was gone again. He waved Norris closer as if for some confidential revelation and gently, if rather loudly, asked, “Tell me something, Pete. Do you actually have to work on being such a pr… preternaturally offensive jerk or is it a gift?” Somebody at the table across the room seemed to have swallowed the wrong way. A frantic wheeze resolved into a protracted coughing fit. Norris straightened up, bright red in the face, and sent the cougher a glare that made Daniel want to extend his condolences to the victim. Jack had pasted on a mask of pure innocence and contemplated the coffee dregs in his mug. Finally, Norris turned back to him. “Fine, O’Neill. Have it your way.” And, with a nod to one of the Marines at the neighboring table, “Poletti, find these… gentlemen… quarters when they’re ready.” “Yessir.” It was the man who’d addressed Daniel by name. On the way out Norris slammed the door hard enough to set the window panes rattling.

Coming out of a wince, Daniel smirked. “Personally, I’d have gone with the first ‘pr’.” “Oh, I dunno.” Jack cocked an eyebrow. “Now he’s gonna go find a dictionary to see what ‘preternaturally’ means. Broadens his horizons.” Her prison was dark and dank and stank of rotting wood and fungi and mold. There was enough of the stuff in here to keep a pharmaceutical plant busy for decades. Not that it did her any good. Through a knothole a million miles above her head a trickle of light seeped into the hollow bole; just enough to extinguish the faint, pulsing glow of whatever organism it was that ate this tree from the inside out. Like everything in this place—or the place itself; it ate you from the inside out. She shuddered, pushed away the thought, and dug in the dirt until she found her weapon again. Not a real one, of course. He’d disarmed her when she’d tried to resist capture, and God only knew where he’d stashed her handgun and knife. Out of her reach, anyway. The only weapon she had was a tent stake, slim and light and blunt. Well, not so blunt anymore. She’d slipped it from the backpack during their first night here, while her captor had believed her asleep and kept watch outside. Even from out there he’d heard the soft clinking of metal on metal and crawled back inside the tree, to check what she was doing and drag her back onto a makeshift pallet of leaves and twigs. Her pulse leaped into a frantic race at the mere memory of it. She couldn’t recall ever having been so scared in her life. If he’d caught her… If he’d caught her, she wouldn’t have had to worry about her heart rate ever again—it was as simple as that. But he hadn’t caught her. All he’d done was take the pack outside with him. By then she’d already removed and hidden the stake. Digging some more, sickened by the slick, moist earth squeezing between her fingers like a living thing—just as well her nails were short—she found the whetstone. It was a small piece of rock, rough and hard as flint, pushed up a few hundred years ago by the sapling tree. She rubbed it over her pants to clean off the dirt and settled back to do what she’d been doing whenever her captor was absent during these past three days. He was absent often and for long periods of time, and she knew he was searching for another victim. It wouldn’t be long now. The tip was already sharp, and she’d managed to hone an inch or so to an edge. She’d come to love the rhythmic swishing of stone over metal. The sound promised escape and a return home, and it calmed her. It also was a kind of meditation. While she whetted the stake, her mind rehearsed the plan for the hundredth time; the small, vital details of where to position herself, when to strike, where to place the dagger. There would be no second chance. If she hesitated for even a fraction of a second, gave him the slightest opening, he would crush her. The images were perfectly clear now, and she could almost feel the gentle pop of the point piercing skin. Like bursting a zit. The notion made her laugh, quietly, briefly, snapping her out of her reverie. Good. She needed to stay focused, and never mind that her head was pounding. Her attention fixed on the boulder that blocked the entrance. Had it moved? No. He wasn’t back yet, though he would be soon. He always came back several times during the day, to make sure she hadn’t found a way to free herself. When he’d first left her here, she’d tried to shift the boulder. Tried for hours, straining and swearing

and angrily refusing to admit that it was hopeless. Physically he was so much beyond her it defied description. But she still could outthink him. He’d shift the boulder for her, unblock the narrow gap in the tree, and then— She drew a hissing breath, froze. There! There it was again. A soft squelch of boots on wet ground; the kind of noise you’d associate with a maiden aunt dispensing sloppy kisses. Kissy-kissy, louder now. Bigger. Because it wasn’t an aunt, it was an uncle. She giggled, instantly recognized the hysteria and wrestled it down. No time for that. The steady, insistent voice that had kept her sane until now demanded action. This was it. If she spent another day in this hole, she’d lose it. Suddenly her palms were slick with sweat. Railing under her breath at the vagaries of physiology, she ripped a strip of fabric from her shirt and wrapped it around the stake to give her a secure grip. Then, inch by inch, so as not to make the slightest sound, she edged off the pallet and over to the entrance. Back pressed into the digestive slime that coated the tree’s interior, she stood and waited, half convinced that he would hear the hammering of her heart. She barely heard anything beside it. But then she did hear something else. The scrape of stone on wood. He was back. She’d been watching carefully whenever he’d opened the entrance. He always rolled the boulder from left to right. Perhaps it was easier that way, perhaps he’d done it once and, finding that it worked, did it the same way each time after that without giving it any thought. It didn’t matter. The only thing that mattered was the fact that he rolled it left to right now. Once the gap was clear, he’d pause, not entirely immune to the exertion, then he’d push himself off the boulder and duck and turn to enter. At that moment, and at that moment only, his jugular would be exposed. The scraping was loud now; scraping and harsh, labored breath. A thin slice of light cut into the gloom inside the tree, broadening slowly, winking in and out as he moved. Another push, another, and another. Then stillness, no more winking and scraping, only the unbroken strip of light and his gasps. It brought the familiar urge to fling herself past him and flee. She’d tried that, too. He’d moved faster than she ever could have imagined, caught her, and carried her back inside. After that he’d always made sure that his legs partly blocked the gap, as they did now. But he’d have to turn. Wait. Not yet. Wait! It was a second. Only a second, two perhaps, but it seemed to grow out of all proportion, stretch into infinity. Her fingers cramped around the grip of the stake. Relax. Relax your arm. Relax your fingers. If the muscles got too tense she would have neither the speed nor the accuracy she needed. The bacterial goop that clung to the bark was beginning to seep through her shirt, sticky and moist on her skin. She concentrated on the discomfort, allowed it to distract her just enough to breathe again. Very, very softly. And then he turned and ducked into the opening. Her arm flew up, fist tight around the stake, just as she’d rehearsed it time and time again in her mind. He saw the movement from the corner of his eye. His head snapped around, but he was helpless at that moment, broad shoulders wedged inside the gap, arms still caught outside. “Dr. Fraiser! No!” 68

Perhaps it was the sound of her name, perhaps the look in his eyes. It dredged up words of a promise she’d made; more than a promise, a command: First, do no harm. Fierce and compelling and almost enough to stop her. Almost. Her arm kept moving, needing to find its target, but its thrust changed, thrown off course by four words. Instead of slicing the vein in his neck, the stake plunged into the hollow above his clavicle, destroying a nexus of nerves and disabling the right side of his upper body. He bellowed in pain, reeled back, and crumpled against the boulder. Now, as she watched his large hand clutching the wound, she knew she’d done the right thing. Hadn’t she? He was looking for the weapon. Wasn’t he? Looking to pull it out and turn it against her. She had to hold on to it. And she did. There was blood dripping from it, rich and dark, like the blood that trickled from between his fingers. First, do no harm. Take a sterile bandage and apply pressure to staunch the bleeding. Probe for tissue and nerve damage and for any contamination introduced into the wound canal. Administer—No. Not for this patient. He wouldn’t need antibiotics. Infection wasn’t an issue. But how did she know that? Her gaze slid from those twitching, bloodied fingers up to his face, his eyes again. Deep brown—black almost—and patient and concerned. And still not angry. At that instant the veil tore, and she moaned, dropped the stake. It landed with a muted thud. “Teal’c,” Janet Fraiser whispered, choking on the horror of what she’d done. What she’d almost done. “Teal’c…” His eyes slid shut, severing the tenuous link she’d found, and the voice floated back, steady and calm and convincing. So convincing. His symbiote will heal him, and he will come after you. Kill him. Kill him now. Stare fixed on him she crouched, moving as through treacle, groped through the mud until her fingers struck metal, curled around the stake, raised it. Then she stepped through the gap and out into freedom, half expecting his legs to shoot up and trip her. But he never stirred, either having resigned himself or unconscious. An insect landed on his face, flexing iridescent wings, buzzed and traipsed around and flew off again. To spread the news and bring others to the feast? Kill him, the voice murmured. “He’s already dead,” she replied through a shiver of anxiety. What if the voice noticed she was lying? It didn’t. It simply fell silent, quietly content. This puzzled her. She’d assumed the voice had all the answers. But she wasn’t going to quibble with it. Not now. Not while she still… Not while it still was fooled. She took a step back, and another, and stopped, hands shaking, body shaking. Then, before the need to obey became overwhelming, she spun around and headed into the jungle at a dead run. “Your lunch, sir.” As usual, Delores objected to having been dispatched to the deli— or maybe she was vegetarian and had ethical reservations against Pastrami sandwiches. Two French manicured fingernails clamped the top of the paper bag,

swung it over the desk, let go. Like a logging crane. “Anything else 1 can get you, sir?” “Write out an expense claim form for this and bring it in for me to sign. I assume you’ll want your money back.” Frank Simmons didn’t have to look up to know that her pretty, inane face was twitching with annoyance right now. “You did get a receipt, didn’t you?” By ways of an answer, she flounced out, letting the door slam behind her. Simmons supposed he should sack her on the strength of the attitude alone. Truth was, though, she had a fairly high entertainment value. That aside, Delores was blessed with the intellectual brilliance of a Scheffleria, which wasn’t actually a bad thing. Intelligence bred curiosity—not a trait to be encouraged in the person who handled his diary. Somebody with two brain cells to rub together might have asked questions about his recent extended absences or about the fact that he’d shown up for a whirlwind tour his office and would vanish again tonight without leaving a forwarding address. She’d figure he had a lover, if she figured anything at all. Like most stupid people, she was wholly unimaginative. Again, a bonus. Unimaginative people were impervious to bullying. As she’d proved conclusively on at least one occasion. Nobody else would have possessed the nerve to keep Jack O’Neill from entering the office for a full two hours. Frank Simmons pried apart the folded top of the bag and chuckled. It’d been priceless. Little Jack, all dolled up in a neatly pressed dress uniform, cap balanced on his knees—hell, he’d even bothered to do something about that hair of his—and trying to be on his best behavior. Which admittedly didn’t amount to much, but by the time he’d lost it and stormed Simmons’ office, you could tell it was virtually causing him physical pain. And then he’d crashed head first into a brick wall and slunk away again, tail between his legs. Priceless. Of course, afterwards his behavior had deteriorated dramatically. He’d gone ahead and solved the riddle of where Major Carter was held and why. As a matter of fact, he’d damn near caught Conrad before Simmons could get to him. The amusement factor of that hadn’t been anywhere near as high, so, all things, considered, it probably was best if O’Neill dropped out of the picture permanently. Simmons took a bite from his sandwich, chewed contentedly—the pickle was homemade—and wished the good colonel hadn’t been wearing a vest that day. Then again, odds were that the joint Marine/Air Force exercise, beneficial in oh so many ways, had taken care of this problem, too. In other words, the kinks had worked themselves out on their own, thank you very much. Too bad that O’Neill refused to be more flexible. For the price of a little moral malleability somebody like him could have had a stellar career in the NID. Halfway through the second bite, the door flew open, and Delores leveled a smug smile at him. “You’ve got a visitor.” “I’m busy,” Simmons managed around a mouthful of Pastrami and rye. “It’s Lieutenant General Crowley.” Crap! Crowley knew better than to just pop in for a chat. Whatever reason he had for coming to the office, it wasn’t to enquire after Colonel Simmons’ health. More likely the reason would render the Pastrami indigestible. So much for kinks working themselves out. 70

Simmons finally swallowed, sank the sandwich bag in a desk drawer, and said, “Show him in.” Her face registered disappointment, as though she’d hoped for open signs of irritation, and she stepped back to clear the way for Crowley—who gusted in like a tropical storm, only drier. Delores closed the door behind him. “General. What can I do for you?” asked Simmons, certain that he didn’t want to know. Complexion florid under a nearly white crew cut, Crowley flung himself into a chair. It groaned. At five foot eleven, the general weighed about a hundred and ninety pounds, all of it muscle. “Where the hell have you been?” he hissed. Okay. Moderate misconception right there. Simmons straightened up, shot his cuffs. “With respect, sir, that’s none of your business. So. What can I do for you?” Needless to say, the reply wasn’t designed to calm Crowley down, but at least he accepted it. Most of the stuff the NID did was classified up the wazoo. In fact, Simmons had been at the safe house, trying to cajole a digest of Jaffa training methods out of Conrad, but he had no intention—or obligation—to reveal that. Not even the President was cleared to know about the Goa’uld. “You assured me that he wouldn’t be a problem!” Crowley snapped. “That who wouldn’t be a problem?” From the desk drawer wafted the scent of Pastrami, and Simmons was still feeling hungry. “O’Neill! You said Hammond was bound to bench him and that he’d retire rather than fly a desk.” The general gave a dyspeptic snort. “Well, guess what? Your guy’s surprisingly active for a retiree. He’s snooping around on ’335.” “He’s what?” All of a sudden, Simmons lost his appetite. “You heard me. He’s got that nerdy civilian lapdog of his with him.” “Dr. Jackson? How do you know?” “Major Warren came back. He told me. I practically had to beat the report out of him. You’d think he’s Air Force, the way he—” “How did they get there?” “It’s a safe bet that they didn’t hike,” snarled Crowley, peeved at being cut off. “So I’m assuming Hammond sent them.” It was an equally safe bet that someone, somewhere along the line, had perpetrated a cataclysmic foul-up. Otherwise Hammond would never have deployed a man whose fitness was questionable. For all his good ole country boy demeanor, the general was one hell of a smooth operator and way too shrewd to lay himself open like that. “Any particular reason why he’d do that?” Simmons asked, keeping his voice as calm as he could. Predictably, it let some of the air out of Crowley’s bluster. Squirming, he muttered, “There was an unforeseen complication. The doctor wasn’t on her own. Carter and the Jaffa were with her. Our men didn’t know what else to do, so they delivered all three of them.” “They did what?” Simmons all but screamed. Never mind loss of appetite; he felt distinctly bilious.

“What’s the big deal? You authorized the doctor as part of your agreement with that alien. So they lost two people more than expected. Tough.” “General, did you actually read O’Neill’s file?” “No. Why should—” “Because ten years or so ago he did a four-month stint as POW in Iraq and came back a few cards short of a full deck. Eventually he recovered, though some people would argue with that. What a herd of shrinks didn’t manage to shake loose, despite their best efforts, was an obsession with never leaving any of his team behind. When you kidnapped Carter and the Jaffa, O’Neill was bound to go after them. And Hammond, with his sentimental fetish for honor and self-sacrifice, probably shoved him through the gate. I guarantee you, between them they’re not gonna leave a stone unturned.” “Oh, now it’s my fault, is it?” Crowley asked testily. “May I remind you that it would have been your guys who gave the order?” “I didn’t say it was your fault,” murmured Simmons, hating to be on the defensive and wishing, for the hundredth time, that he could be out there and run the show himself. The enforced lack of communication was a serious weakness. Unfortunately, his face was too well known around the SGC, and even in a Marine uniform he’d never have made it through the Stargate unnoticed. “So what do you suggest we do? Any ideas?” snapped Crowley. “You got somebody who can deliver a message?” “I’ve got another unit on standby. They’re to gate out whenever I give the word.” “Good.” Simmons experienced a wary tug of relief and tapped a pen on his desk blotter. “O’Neill and Jackson can’t stay on ’335. We can’t afford witnesses. Nor can we afford my dear friend, Lady Nirrti, vacuuming Major Carter’s head, which she’s perfectly capable of doing.” Dropping the pen, he leaned back in his chair. “I’m afraid SG-1 will have to go missing in action.” “That’s your solution? Make them go away?” Crowley’s already livid face reddened alarmingly. “And you think Hammond’s gonna sit still for that? He’s investigating me, for God’s sake!” “Don’t worry about Hammond. I’ll take care of him.” “He’s gonna go MIA, too? Subtle, Colonel. Real subtle.” “Oh no. I’ll just keep him busy.” Simmons smiled. “Now, by the beginning of next week you should have ten new Jaffa, bringing the total up to twenty-one. Once they arrive, we ought to give them a road test, see how efficient they are.” Somehow he didn’t think he was going to apprise Nirrti of this idea.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Reversal: Process whereby a derived character state changes back to the ancestral state through mutation or selection. M3D 335’s primary was doing a pretty convincing impression of his ribcage, though Jack O’Neill felt certain that the phenomena were unrelated. Turning green and purple, the bloated peril—the planet, that was—had sagged to half-mast and leered over the horizon. Whoever was responsible for the design sure knew how to enhance the warm fuzzy feeling the rest of this place evoked. The blighted eggplant backlit a handful of huts and the ten-strong unit of Marines who had arrived half an hour ago, yipping in the rarified atmosphere. They were still being briefed by a pair of sergeants, and something about these two guys irked Jack. They fit in like transvestites at a Revivalist meeting. The crate that currently served as his bench was getting uncomfortable. Shoulders resting against the wall behind him, he slid forward a little, stretched his legs, and yawned to reinforce the large, lazy cat look. Daniel, who’d been ogling one of Mr. Poletti’s braves across the square, turned around to observe Jack’s shufflings and asked, “Am I boring you?” “Not yet.” “Oh good. If it gets to the point, let me know and I’ll start tap-dancing.” “In a feather boa?” Jack didn’t hear the reply. Out on the square new and exciting things were happening. The men had been dismissed, but one of them now addressed the two sergeants. As Newbie’s hand dipped into a pocket, Sergeant A’s fingers locked around his wrist, stopping him from taking out whatever it was he meant to deliver. The sergeant’s hand let go and slipped to the man’s shoulder for a pat. Meanwhile, Sergeant B kept smiling and chatting. All very low-key and expertly done, and if Jack hadn’t been watching out for this type of thing he’d have missed it. What happened next was just as slick. The sergeants casually herded Newbie in the direction of the communications shack—it’d been introduced as such to Colonel O’Neill. While Sergeant A swiped a keycard through the door lock, B sent a furtive jerk of the head at Mr. Poletti’s brave, whose lips began to move. In other words, the brave was either nuts and talking to himself, or wired and inviting other guests to the party. Whom? Newbie and the sergeants entered the com shack. A minute later the guests arrived: Norris and Poletti showed up, collected the brave, and also felt the urge to communicate. If nothing else, it answered one question. The two sergeants who looked like they ought to be wearing suits instead of BDUs were the ones calling the shots around here. NID sprang to mind. Sweet.

By now the eggplant had darkened to a color combination exclusive to Gothic novels, and the men milling around the square were beginning to disperse. The only one dragging his feet was the guy who’d suffered that nasty pulmonary incident in the mess earlier. “Jack?” Daniel said softly. He looked worried. It probably wasn’t a good idea to admit that his commanding officer shared the sentiment. “I’ve seen him. I’m just not sure which club he belongs to.” “What?” “The ape who went into the hut last was the real tail. This one’s a freelancer.” Easing himself from the crate, Jack swore under his breath. How come it hurt that much if he didn’t even have a fracture to show for it? “You okay?” This from the man with the world’s worst shiner. “Fine. Let’s go.” Jack ducked into a short alley between two huts and broke into a run, Daniel right behind him. At the other end, they whipped around the corner and stopped dead. Their shadow was following doggedly, his footfalls getting louder. Timing the noise, Jack stuck his leg out and was treated to a rather nice forward flip. The pursuer hit the ground oomphing, rolled onto his back, and found himself staring up the business end of Daniel’s Beretta. “Hi,” said Jack, patting his P90 to indicate politely that, on request, they also did fifteen rounds a second instead of two. “Anything we can do for you?” The man didn’t look as though he was going to make any requests. Front paws raised, like a puppy waiting for a belly-rub, he yelped, “Colonel O’Neill?” “Who wants to know?” “Corporal Lon Wilkins, sir.” Corporal Wilkins seemed to want to salute but didn’t dare to move his hands. “Permission to speak freely, sir?” Well, that held a certain comic piquancy. As far as Jack could recall, he’d never got that type of enquiry from a Marine flat on his back. He grinned. “You heard the corporal, Daniel. He said freely. Put the gun away and help him up.” “Thanks, sir.” Duly restored to an upright position, Wilkins dusted himself off, came to attention, and said, “You’re looking for Major Carter, right, sir?” The blush triggered by Carter’s name revealed that Wilkins carried a torch the size of a young lamppost for the Major. For some reason it irritated Jack. “And Dr. Fraiser. And a big black guy who variously goes by Murray or Teal’c. You know where they are?” “No, sir. They did leave for the Stargate, though. I saw them. But that’s all I can tell you. That and…” The corporal swallowed, looking sick all of a sudden. “I don’t usually—Look, I heard what Colonel Norris told you in the mess. It was a lie. The guys who guarded the gate that night? They sat right next to you, sir.” Poletti and the Braves. That put an interesting spin on things. Jack filed it away. “Thanks, Corporal. Now beat it. You don’t want to be seen with us.” “Uh, no offense, but no. Sir!” He got that salute in at last, then hesitated for a moment. “Watch your back, Colonel. I don’t know what’s going on, but it’s weird.” With that profound observation Corporal Wilkins sprinted into the alley and out of sight.

“Weird, huh?” muttered Daniel. “One way of putting it. Now what?” “Now?” Jack poked his head around the corner, saw that the passage was empty, and started heading back toward the square at a leisurely pace. “Now we’re gonna sit tight till lights-out, and then we’ll pay a visit to the radio shack, pardon the pun.” “Why?” “Because that’s what passes for headquarters around here. The two guys who masquerade as sergeants went in there for a confab with the messenger boy, Norris, and the Poletti gang. To discuss new orders, I assume.” Daniel cast him a sidelong glance. “How can you possibly know all that?” “Afraid I’m committing a tactical error?” snapped Jack, instantly regretting it. Daniel wasn’t afraid. He was. And maybe Daniel should be afraid. Because it was conjecture, and it was the best Jack had right now. He stormed out into the deserted square, staring at the planet, at the quiet barracks that seemed to be flattened by oily light. What the hell was he doing here? If he was all the SGC had to offer, then God help Carter and Teal’c and Doc Fraiser. “Jack!” Daniel’s hand on his arm, insistent and not letting go. Stuttering to a halt, Jack turned around. “Sorry,” he ground out. “Must be the light. Feels like I’m floating through a fish tank covered in green goop. Green makes me cranky.” The look gave it away. Clearly, Daniel found the image intriguing but didn’t buy the excuse for a second. “What I was trying to convey back there—and I can see where it gets confusing—is my appreciation for those deductive reasoning skills of yours.” “Ah,” mumbled Jack and shrugged. “No big deal. You know what I’ve been doing in the bad old days. It involved a lot of that.” “Glad we cleared that up.” Daniel broke into a cautious grin. “Now can we get some dinner?” “You got a death wish? If the rest of the place is anything to go by, they serve boiled newt as—Oh crap!” Watching his nemesis approach, Jack wondered if it was too late to change the entree back to boiled newt. Poletti in tow, Norris had emerged from the com shack and strutted across the square. “O’Neill! Sergeant van Leyden wants to see you.” “In which case Sergeant van Leyden can drag his ass out here. If he asks why, tell him to read up on privileges of rank.” Norris’ face said that this was exactly the reply he’d hoped for. Jack didn’t like it. Time to stir things up a little. “By the way, Norris, what were you doing at the gate this morning?” Haughtiness gave way to consternation, and Norris’ jaw worked hard. Eventually he snarled, “I was waiting for Major Warren. We were expecting him back. Not that it’s any of your business.” “We? Who’s we? That happy little family you’ve got here?” This time the shock tactics didn’t work. Norris smirked. “Look, O’Neill, you two can either come with us or—” The motion, a blur in his peripheral vision, told Jack that the unspoken threat had just become the only option and that it was gonna be ugly. He spun around, managed to block a blow that nearly broke his arm. His fist, aimed at Poletti’s solid gut,

missed by a mile. God, this guy was fast, way too fast! Jack was going for his gun when a punch to the kidney made him arch back helplessly. As he sank to his knees, pain tinted the planet’s crescent brilliantly red, until the Stooges appeared out of nowhere to join the fun. Curly’s face smiled down on him, and Norris bleated a lame, unexpected protest. Then they were all over Jack, pinning him down, flex-cuffing his wrists, leaving his ribs screaming. Six feet away lay Daniel, tied up and motionless, nose busted, lip split, blood glaring from an ashen face. “Take them to the gate,” a whole new voice ordered, sounding like its owner was enjoying the spectacle. “Send them… home.” Sergeant van Leyden, Jack presumed. It was near sunrise by the time Teal’c awoke, remembering little, except that the injury must have been grievous, else he would not have slipped into a healing trance. Then the forest, alive with the howls of its creatures, brought the events back to him. He cautiously pushed himself upright, neck craned to look at his shoulder. A large bloodstain had soaked from where the fabric was torn and down the front of his shirt. Drenched by the pervasive damp, it was already beginning to blend with dirt and sweat. The wound itself had closed. Only a rosy scar, standing out starkly from dark skin, marked its location. That and perhaps some minor twinges and residual stiffness in his shoulder. In time, scar, twinges, and stiffness would fade, and they were a small price to pay for his folly. “Shek kree a kek, hasshak!” he hissed, furious with himself. Had he let himself be fooled like this as a raw recruit, Master Bra’tac would not have wasted any time or effort on whipping him. Master Bra’tac would have sent him home to his mother, to learn how to spin wool and tend small children, because Teal’c was not fit to become a warrior. “Hasshak!” He spat again and pushed himself to his feet. The shelter in the tree was empty, as he had feared. Dug into the ground he found a deep hole, filling with moisture. This was where Dr. Fraiser had hidden her dagger. Near the hole lay a small piece of rock; a whetstone, no doubt. There was nothing else the tree could tell him, and Teal’c stepped back out into the open, noting with some astonishment that she had not taken the backpack or any of the weapons, despite the fact that he had hardly been in a position to stop her. Why had she left without supplies or arms? And where had she gone? He could not visually recall her leaving, because he had been slipping from consciousness, but perhaps… Teal’c returned to the boulder that had secured the entrance, sat down once more, and closed his eyes. In his mind he saw the doctor’s drawn face, her gaze lucid for the first time in days, agonized with the realization of what she had done. Then the image went black. This was when he had begun to drift. But he had still been able to hear; the sounds as clear and precise as they became in the split-second before sleep. He’s already dead. Said aloud as if in response to something or someone—what or whom?—and with a distinct undertone of apprehension. The doctor had told an untruth, and she

had been afraid of being found out. Not just about the lie. She had had the opportunity to kill him and refused to take it. Twice. First when she had only wounded him; the second time when he had lain helpless. Instead of striking, she had backed away, slowly and with great difficulty—a child, aware of the cost of disobedience but disobeying nonetheless—and then she suddenly had turned and run. With perfect accuracy, his memory mapped out the volume and direction of the sound her footsteps had made. When his eyes snapped open, he stared at a tight gap in the undergrowth. Teal’c rose and retraced her path, unsurprised when he could not find boot prints. The ground, bog-like and resilient, returned to its original state within minutes. However, on the bushes themselves several thin twigs were broken and leaves crushed; unmistakable tokens of passage. Dr. Fraiser’s choice of escape route bewildered him. To the east, the terrain became easier, sloping gradually into a broad river valley. Logically, if a person were fleeing from something, they would tend to take the easiest path for best possible speed. Indeed, Teal’c himself had done so three days ago, fleeing from the beasts that had attacked them. Dr. Fraiser had done the opposite. She had turned west, choosing the most difficult and dangerous route, uphill into the mountains and back toward the Stargate—and the beasts. Why? “To go home,” he murmured in answer to his own question. In her ramblings, she had repeatedly expressed a wish to return home. At the time, it had struck him as the most rational thought she was conceiving. Now he wondered. Even when she had shown no sign of improvement, he had clung to the hope that the condition would be temporary. But he was no longer sure that it was madness at all. The assault on him, in its preparation and execution, spoke of a cunning that was fundamentally unlike Dr. Fraiser. Not because she lacked the intelligence and determination, but because she lacked the callousness. The fact that he was still alive proved it. If not madness, what then? Teal’c knew of one thing that would explain it, and the thought sickened him to such an extent that he refused to entertain it. But whatever the case, he needed to find her, even if it meant temporarily abandoning his search for Major Carter. At this moment Dr. Fraiser was the more vulnerable of the two, although Major Carter, too, had been injured, and it was impossible to predict her current state of health. In the name of a false god Teal’c had led men into battle, more than once, and thus the weight of responsibility he felt was as familiar as it was unwelcome. Unwelcome not because he sought to shirk it, but because he knew the consequences error could entail. His own father had fallen victim to them, murdered for failing to please the whim of a would-be god and win an unwinnable skirmish. Holding himself accountable, he had calmly accepted his punishment—as indeed had O’Neill, who had become his own judge and jury. Neither man had conceded that responsibility without error could not exist. If there were no risk of error, what weight could there be to responsibility? They went hand in hand, one the dark side of the other, and the conclusions O’Neill had drawn were wrong. The penance he inflicted on himself was unjust and would be warranted only if he were a god possessed of omniscience.

Teal’c decided that, should he escape with his life, his friend and brother would need to be reminded of his patent lack of divinity. Fuelled by sudden resolve, he turned back, collected the pack and his staff weapon, set off on the doctor’s tenuous trail of broken twigs, crushed tendrils of creeper plants, bark scraped from tree trunks. Irrespective of the difficulty of the terrain, all traces were on a line that led uphill and west as straight as a bird flew. It was as though Dr. Fraiser followed a beckoning voice, imperious and seductive. Further up in the mountains, the ground became marginally drier, and here he found footprints—mostly indentations made by the tips of her boots. She had been moving fast, running at times, and continued for longer than she should have been able to sustain such a frenzied pace. If Teal’c was right, the will that governed her would drive her on relentlessly and past the point of exhaustion. And if he was right, it meant that a Goa’uld was on this planet. More than four hours into his pursuit Teal’c reached a small stream and followed it upriver, until it widened into a pool. Halfway along its northern shore, he discovered the impression in the mud. During his first winter on Earth, O’Neill had explained to him a game Tauri children liked to play. It was called Snow Angels, and O’Neill had obliged by throwing himself to the ground and demonstrating its mechanics. This looked similar—the shape of a body etched into the soil, legs splayed, arms stretched wide. Dr. Fraiser’s physical strength seemed to have flagged at last. She had tripped over a root and fallen face down into the mud. From there she had gathered herself and crawled to the water’s edge, presumably to drink. “Shek kree,” Teal’c muttered, dismayed. He knelt, scooped up a handful of water and, careful not to swallow any, sloshed the sweat from his face. Tepid and smelling sickly sweet, the water was less than refreshing. It also was tainted, Teal’c knew not by what substance. When he had first come upon the creek two days ago and several miles further downstream, he too had drunk from it, but his symbiote had neutralized most of the contaminant. Other than a passing dizziness there had been no ill effects. However, he could not tell what harm it would do to Tauri physiology. Some, he surmised. Dr. Fraiser had risen again, but the footprints, plainly outlined now, were uneven and staggering like a drunkard’s. He trailed the unsteady path and two hundred meters further up found a rock where she had rested. Though not in the position he would have expected. Instead of slumping onto the smooth stone directly, she had walked around it and sat facing uphill. Why? Whom or what had she been watching? Teal’c eased himself onto the rock, absently noting that his shoulder ached; a reminder that, while the symbiote was able to accelerate his body’s healing process, it required the rest of kelno’reem to do so properly. It would have to wait. Rotating his arm to loosen cramped muscles, he suddenly realized that the maddening cackle and chatter of the jungle had ceased. The only sounds were the tap of condensation dripping from branches and the splash of a reedy waterfall at the western end of the lake. Other than that, the forest was quiet. His fingers inadvertently tightened around the staff weapon, and he fought off a sense of foreboding. Then his gaze traveled upward, against the motion of the water, 78

over black rock and plants shining with moisture, until at last he saw what Dr. Fraiser must have seen. Atop the cliff and its cascade rose, gray as ghosts, the ruins that housed the Stargate. Dr. Daniel Jackson felt distinctly claustrophobic. The rock walls reared toward a starless corridor of olive drab sky, and the uneven ground wasn’t designed to enhance physical or spiritual balance. Send them… home. As he walked—alright, tottered—Daniel mulled the three words over, the linguist in him fascinated by that beat before home. Somehow the pause suggested that there was no place like… home. It could be interpreted in all sorts of ways, none likely to coincide with his preferred definition. For instance, the— He stumbled, felt a hot bolt of pain rattle through his head, heard the snigger of the goon behind him, and swore under his breath. You’d think that, if people insisted on converting your face to raw hamburger, they’d at least have the decency to order a sedan chair for you afterwards. “You okay?” whispered Jack. “Shut up!” barked Mr. Poletti, the echo of his voice bouncing through the canyon. “Fine,” Daniel said quickly, careful to keep Jack on his right, in order to hide the left side of his face. The goons—dead ringers for a mob of Jaffa—hadn’t been kind enough to give him a moment to take off his specs. That pair, too, was trashed now, though it didn’t make that much of a difference. He couldn’t see out of his left eye anyway, and so far he’d been unable to ascertain if this was because the eye had swollen shut or because, this time round, he’d actually lost sight in it. Either way, it livened up the hike. One of the rarely considered benefits of stereoscopic vision was the fact that it allowed for depth perception. He’d found out the hard way while running around in that stupid eye patch—one of the reasons why he’d discarded it three days earlier than prescribed by Doc Fraiser. His shins had been unable to stand the strain. Right now, his shins didn’t worry him. What did worry him was being funneled through the canyon that led to the gate. That meaningful pause seemed to preclude the literal meaning of home, which left a euphemism popular among romantic novelists—along with eternal rest. Odds were that he and Jack would be lined up against the cliff for a quaint old execution by firing squad—blindfold unnecessary in Dr. Jackson’s case—with subsequent disposal of their remains through the Stargate. What do you mean, General Hammond? They gated back three days ago. The thought that this might be precisely what had happened to Sam and Teal’c and Janet made him sick. Only sheer, undiluted fury at the prospect of never finding out why kept the churning in his gut at bay. It wasn’t just scientific curiosity. Daniel wanted to know whom to haunt. The goons prodded them around a narrow bend, and suddenly the rock walls parted and opened out into the crater. “Keep going,” advised Mr. Poletti.

More prodding, but strangely enough not toward the cliff but toward the gate. One of the Marines broke into a trot, overtook, and headed for the DHD. He made no attempt to conceal the address he was dialing. He didn’t need to. Daniel himself had dialed it countless times over the years. Earth. He heard Jack’s sigh of disbelief, seconded the motion, and wondered how General Hammond would respond to having them returned in this not quite factorysealed condition. With a decidedly undiplomatic note of protest, Daniel assumed. The thought was cut off by the whoosh of the event horizon, and then the wormhole established, drilling a clear blue circle into murky air. “In your own time, gentlemen,” said Poletti. “You’ll have to uncuff me,” Jack muttered. “I need to enter the IDC.” “I’ll do the honors.” Poletti smirked and started punching numbers into the transmitter on his wrist. So this was how it’d go. No blindfolds and last cigarettes. Just bugs on the windshield, and next time Sergeant Siler cleaned the iris, he’d wipe off some familiar-looking subatomic particles. Daniel never for a moment believed that Poletti had entered a valid code. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw that five of the goons had formed a semicircle behind him and Jack, discouraging any foolhardy notions such as running. Out front, Poletti had climbed the dais. “Bon voyage, gentlemen,” he brayed. Jack started walking. Evidently he wasn’t immune to niceties of phrasing either. If he thought they were going home, he’d leave last, after seeing his one-man-team safely through the wormhole. Daniel caught up with him in front of the event horizon. “Stop jostling for pole position,” he hissed. “They say it hardly hurts at all,” Jack hissed back. “Who says?” “The particles.” And then Jack was gone. Two seconds later Daniel concluded that the particles were lying through their teeth. But conscious thought and sensation folded into merciful black, until he shot from the far end of the wormhole, screaming and in free fall. Images took on a snapshot quality; an oppressive flood of green, age-old masonry, the still figure sprawled between ferns below. He hit the ground hard, though moss and mud cushioned most of the impact. The Hereafter didn’t exactly live up to the advertising. Then again, there always was the possibility that he wasn’t quite dead yet. Groaning, he rolled over and struggled to his knees. The gymnastics shook loose an avalanche of throbs that felt like it wanted to exit his head through his left eye. He ignored it and shuffled over to Jack who seemed to be coming round, his face bonewhite under a mudpack. “Love what they’ve done with the gate room.” Jack blinked up at the canopy. “Where the hell are we? Mato Grosso?”

“Doesn’t look like Brazil to me.” Daniel sniffed, squinting at the blur of a monumental structure behind them. High in the wall, the gate formed the third eye in a stone-carved mask that placidly gazed down at him. “My money’s on Angkor Wat.” “What encore?” “You know. The Khmer temples in Cambodia.” “Didn’t know they kept a Stargate there.” “Uh, they don’t, I guess. If they did, somebody’d have found it by now.” Glancing at fuzzy walls and reliefs again, Daniel said, “This is amazing. We definitely need to check out this place. It could—” “Daniel!” “Hmm?” “We don’t know where we are, we’re hogtied, we’ve got no weapons or supplies, and we—Holy buckets!” Jack had finally turned his head to get a spectacular view of Daniel’s face. “You know, you’re… Nah, I won’t say it.” “Won’t say what?” “Uh-uh.” “Jack?” “I’m not gonna say you’re a sight for sore eyes.” “Very funny.” “That’s why I didn’t say it.” He winced. “Can you see anything at all?” “Not out of the left eye.” “Crap.” Accompanied by a lurid selection of curses, Jack maneuvered himself onto his side, facing away from Daniel. Who was watching the performance, knowing that it had to hurt like merry hell and wishing he could make himself useful. “You need a doctor,” he offered lamely. “I’ll consult the first medicine man who’s got his shingle out.” Jack wiggled his fingers. “Chew through the flex.” “You’re joking!” “No.” Sighing, Daniel dropped into a patch of mud and scooted down until his teeth were at a level with Jack’s wrists. “Fart and I’ll kill you!” There was no reply, and Daniel resigned himself. Bits of his face that desperately wanted to be left alone were chafing against Jack’s arms, and the plastic was no real winner for taste and stuck between his teeth. Jack kept quiet. He’d either passed out again or he was brooding. Daniel stopped and sat up, trying to relax his shoulders. The sun had crept over the treetops and onto their little patch of forest floor. It occurred to him that they’d been cheated out of a night and some much-needed sleep. “I didn’t fart!” So Jack had been brooding. “Keep going!” “How about you entertain me by telling me why you retired?” “You know why. You were there.”

If there’d ever been a moment when Daniel wanted to cross his arms this was it. “Don’t bullshit me. You quit—which isn’t exactly a specialty of yours. So what’s going on?” “Daniel, I—” “Spill it, Jack. I mean it.” Jack shifted over a little further, staring at a lump of moss. “This last year—” “You mean the one when you were too busy being the alpha male to see daylight?” And Daniel had risen to the bait every damn time, until their usual banter deteriorated into personal insults. “Sorry. Just gag me.” “Can’t. I need you.” “Oh right. The flex.” “What else?” O’Neillese for the friendship’s still there. Twisted and battered and bent out of shape, but still a friendship. Solid foundations. “What about this last year?” Daniel prodded. “You mean apart from the fact that I was prepared to blow up a spaceship with you in it? Or that I shot to kill when I shot Carter? Or that I left Teal’c to get his matrix stored in the gate? Notice a pattern? Too many bad calls, Daniel. The only reason why any of you’s still around is that I got lucky each time. I can’t afford to rely on that. You can’t. The exercise sent up a red flag. That’s what happens when luck runs out, Daniel.” His fingers balled into tight fists. “The other day, when I shot that robot—” “She was sentient, Jack.” “When I shot Reese? I shot her because I couldn’t gamble. I was scared stiff of luck running out. I’ve lost too many people already, and so help me, I’m not going to lose any more.” You stupid son of a bitch! Daniel grimaced. “Look,” he said at last, “for what it’s worth, I’ve always been convinced—still am—that, if I buy it out here, it won’t be because you’re there but because you’re not. You’ve pulled our asses out of the fire more times than I care to remember and long may you continue to do so. Because I have every intention of living to a ripe old age. and I’m counting on you to keep that little fancy of mine viable.” “Gee! Thanks, Daniel.” Jack sounded raw, but the attitude was encouraging. “Anything else I can do for you?” “As a matter of fact, yes.” Daniel grinned. “Try stretching the flex. It might pop.” “You sneaky, underhand, devious little… You mean there was no reason for me to—” “I didn’t say that. I said it might pop. So it might still need some nibbling.” “And you might just stay cuffed!” growled Jack and did as he was told. The flex popped. Ten minutes later, Daniel’s hands were free, too. Rubbing his wrists, he looked for a doorway that would lead to the interior of the ruins, but all he could see was the gaping mouth of the stone face that held the Stargate. Not likely, despite the stone tongue that lolled out into the clearing like an entrance ramp. Besides, the maw stank of feces and God knew what else, and even Daniel’s investigative fervor had limits. He began trailing the wall into the forest, noticing for

the first time that the noises you’d expect in a jungle were absent. Except for an unnerving, insistent buzz. Following the sound, he rounded a huge tree and froze, bile rising in his throat. So much for peace and quiet. From somewhere behind him drifted shouts. “Daniel! Wait up! I can’t find the”— Jack came trotting around the bole and ground to a dead halt—“DHD…” Clouds of flies dancing around it, the body hung suspended from a protrusion in the temple wall.

CHAPTER NINE

“Okay, sirs. That’s it for today. As you can tell from your schedule, the role play exercise is slotted first thing tomorrow morning, so you might wanna go over your notes tonight. Thank you all, and I’ll see you tomorrow.” The hollow-chested lecturer, a warrant officer in academic uniform—baggy chinos, checked shirt, and beige corduroy jacket—shuffled down from the dais in front of the projection screen and immediately was mobbed by a gang of teacher’s pets. Like high school, George Hammond thought in disgust. Except, he himself had never hung around after class. He’d been too busy trying to set new records for the run between classroom and bleachers. Nothing to do with baseball. More to do with Betty Mae Turner. He smiled briefly—Betty Mae had ended up marrying one of the teacher’s pets and produced a houseful of organ-pipe offspring. However, this wasn’t high school and more’s the pity. If it were, or if he had more of Jack O’Neill’s blithe disregard for institutional authority, he’d have carved This sucks! into the desk with a penknife. As it was, he simply gathered his— unused—notepad and sidled out of the row of seats and toward the exit. Below, the eager beavers were still wooing the lecturer, who was lapping it up. Presumably it was more attention than the guy otherwise got in a year. Good for him. And good for Psych Ops. If they were striving to imbue their existence with some meaning, that was a laudable undertaking and all very well with Major General Hammond. However, he signally failed to understand why he should have to be involved in the ego salving. He had better things to do. More urgent things. That aside, a little advance warning might have been nice. The order for Hammond to participate in this extravaganza for general staff had landed on his desk yesterday morning. The three-day seminar at Boiling AFB (Enhanced Understanding of Leadership and Dealing with Subordinates) seemed to be part of some obscure drive toward fluffier armed forces, and it was as redundant as a pair of left shoes. A lot of wishywashy psycho-babble that had nothing whatsoever to do with real life. Real life was fifty percent of SG-1 and Dr. Fraiser missing. Hammond stormed down the corridor, dodging clumps of chatting people. His interest in discussing this afternoon’s lecture (Voluntary Separation and How to Handle It) was strictly limited. Besides, his personal method (Wait Till Half a Team Disappears and See How Fast Their CO Bounces Back) wouldn’t meet with the attendees’ approval. As he rattled down the stairs he thought he heard somebody hollering his name, opted for temporary deafness, and ducked out the door. He needed to contact the SGC and check if there were any news, but he didn’t want to make the call from Boiling. He had friends elsewhere whose phones would be secure.

Outside, the wind was driving sheets of rain across the lawn. The weather suited his mood. Head bowed and shoulders hunched, he hurried along the access road and through the main g