The first of the sharks encountered the farthest edge of the green and shook itself wildly, trying to back out of the cloud.
Seeing the erratic swimming pattern, the other sharks turned on the first one. This lasted only until they, too, got a whiff of the green-dyed water, at which they doubled back on themselves in their attempt to flee.
The observers were bewildered.
What is it? What has he done?
O’Neill floated in place and watched as the sharks, and every other finned thing, left the area in indecent haste. This repellant stuff seemed to work better here than it ever had before; not even the growing red mist in the water kept their interest. Once they tasted the green ink, they fled.
Considering the taste of the stuff, he couldn’t blame them. He’d met skunks that—Well, that was an insult to the skunk clan. The stench was unbearable. For a scent hunter like an eel or a shark, it would have been like being hit with a lightning bolt. For the moray, maybe that had been the truth.
Finally only Vair and he were left, and the auburn octopus looked as if it would very much like to leave too. His injured leg was beginning to hurt now. He twisted around in the water to examine the gashes left by the moray’s fangs.
Why are we wasting time this way? Why did you return to this one?
Be still! I am the One who Shapes, and I tell you that there are potent weapons here in this man. Did you see what he did? He has a mist that can drive his enemies away!
Yes, a mist under water! We are not water breathers! We need what we can use here! Why do you permit him to continue this scenario?
Unwilling admission: My control of these aliens is not strong. I do not understand them or the nature of all the weapons or even the places we see. They come out of the Nothing; they are not water breathers either. I do not know how or why or what would shape this. It is a struggle to control them—you saw it yourself when you walked in his dream.
Swam in it, you mean. The thoughts were contemptuous. Eha, what kind of person swims? What kind of person swims so deep? The surface of the water was far over his head!
A ripple of shock spread around the little circle, as if contempt were something utterly new to them. The gathered Kayeechi looked at each other uncertainly, uncomfortably, except for Vair, who stood dripping wet and angry, facing the leader of the little group. A green miasma clung faintly to his fur pattern. The others tried to edge away without being too obvious about it.
Swam, then, Etra’ain responded at last. My point remains. I cannot control them too closely, or we lose the benefit of their dreams. We seek what they have, not what we permit them to have; we must take what we can from them. We must let them create the context of the dream, even if it is underwater, to find new things. This mist he used—perhaps we should consider using some kind of green water smoke to repel the Narrai.
And perhaps it would work if the Narrai, or we, were water creatures! In any case I tell you that a mere repellant will not be enough. We are running out of time. If the Narrai return before we are ready, they will destroy us completely. The sun rises and we are counting our dead. We must destroy them first. I tell you, Etra’ain, seek another dream, another shape!
CHAPTER EIGHT
Etra’ain sat alone in the Circle of Shaping and watched the sun rise over the hills where the Narrai nested. Ever since their Shapers had dreamed the giant birds and walking trees, the hills had been the home of the great birds.
It had seemed so easy to begin with, shaping their dreams, the dreams of others, even the dreams of the little creatures of the earth and sky. Over time, over generations, the Shaped dreams became real and stayed real even when the dreamers woke and so built many different shapes to their world.
How were the Kayeechi of long ago to know that the Narrai would eventually pull free of the dreams, would not submit to the Shaping of later generations, would learn so quickly, fight back so devastatingly? How were they to know that the great birds would one day refuse to submit to having their nests plundered to feed the young of their creators? The tide of war had turned against the Kayeechi, and now it was a matter of survival.
And now she was driven to seek the dreams of these aliens who had weapons, she was sure, beyond any of those she had Shaped before. Greater even than these.
She reached out with a withered three-fingered hand to touch the smooth metal of an energy staff. She was not certain it would work, because she was not certain how it functioned, but she had seen in the dreams that the dark one was comfortable and familiar with it, and she had shaped it whole from his mind. Vair would have to take it to the dark one and see if he recognized it and would put the seal of reality upon it.
It was not the weapon Vair sought, but if the staff worked, it would help immeasurably.
Meanwhile, she was not finished mining the dreams of the aliens. They would win yet, if she had to Shape the future itself, which would be the greatest Shaping of all.
“Mmmmmmm.” There was nothing, nothing like the warm, slightly scratchy feel of clean beach sand against bare skin, the soothing sound of surf washing against the shore in lazy, endless repetition. Samantha Carter squinted into the brilliant blue overhead, and the brief shadow of a gull shaded her eyes.
Behind her was a tropical forest climbing all the way to the top of a round hill. In the forest, she could find gorgeous birds and exotic fruits ripe for the taking. She was absolutely alone on the island. She could sun herself naked and no one would know or care. She was at perfect peace except, perhaps, for the heat of the sun against her face. It was like being on another world, where she didn’t have to worry about the military or secrets or Stargates or enemy aliens or even getting to work on time. She could just lie here, laze and doze, forever and ever and ever. It was pure bliss.
Was this her memory, she wondered, or Jolinar’s? Her beaches were usually crowded with tourists, and she lay on a towel or a chaise longue with an umbrella-topped drink beside her. A major’s pay and a major’s leave rarely ran to tropical paradises. Jolinar’s might, though. The Goa’uld’s memories were not something she normally sought out, but if this were one of them, she was happy to luxuriate in it. There had to be some kind of upside to the experience, after all.
And she supposed even Tok’ra, even Goa’uld, occasionally went on vacation.
God, that sun felt good.
Etra’ain let herself slide through the shaping, observing the alien mind. It had an odd double quality to it, something like that the dark one had as well. It made it more difficult to propose scenarios to the dreaming minds. Memories, even partial ones, were even more difficult to call forth from this one; it was almost as if she were dealing with two adult minds in one. She wondered how these strange, tall beings remained sane with all the clutter they retained. It was, though she would admit it to no one and particularly not to Vair or Shasee, completely overwhelming sometimes.
But there had to be a key in their minds too. She was the Shaper; she refused to admit that there was any dream, no matter how alien, how bizarre, she could not access and make real.
Except, perhaps, her own hollow dreams of victory.
But that was not at issue here. She would look again, and this time she would find something useful.
A tiny scratching sound off to Samantha’s left called her attention. It was a red—no, a deep purple crab, perhaps half as large as the palm of her hand, waving its larger claw up in the air as if trying to attract her attention. Tiny spines grew out of its chitin in a regular Crosshatch pattern.
“Hi there,” she responded, amused. “Looking for a new home? There’s lots of real estate out here. I’ll share.”
The crab took two steps sideways, then skittered in the opposite direction, still maintaining a careful distance from its human observer. Its antennae wavered back and forth at the sound of her voice. The little crustacean’s attitude reminded her of a teenage boy on a stag line, trying to work up his courage to dash across the breadth of the auditorium and ask one of the
girls to dance.
“Hey, I don’t bite,” she said.
The crab waved its larger claw at her again. It was a very big claw for a little crab. Very businesslike.
“And you’re not going to bite either, are you?” she asked, feeling mild alarm.
Suddenly the claw came down again, and the little crab zipped backward. “Hey,” she protested, lifting herself up on one elbow to watch as it disappeared under a pile of brown seaweed.
The waves slapping against the shore were suddenly cold against her legs, and she twisted around to see a series of much larger waves moving in. A maelstrom a few hundred yards out sent seabirds screeching away.
Instead of sinking down into the water, the whirlpool moved up into the air, as if something were pushing the water out rather than pulling it in. Now really alarmed, she rose to one knee, watching as the whirlpool moved closer.
And then a massive, dull white, bulbous head broke out of the whirlpool, with two gigantic brown eyes that blinked and watched impassively as multiple arms flailed, picking a stray gull out of the air and flinging it to land broken at her feet. It was something out of a childhood movie—20,000 Leagues Under the Sea—but there was no Jules Verne to write her ending for her.
But for no apparent reason, there were weapons on the sand beside her, set out in a neat array. Without taking time to choose, she grabbed a zatnickatel and sighted along it as the kraken splashed closer, supporting itself on its multiple arms, its beak clacking. The thing could have heaved a small submarine at her.
She was sorry to have thought it as a misty cigar shape began to coalesce within the kraken’s tentacles. The weapons beside her were now piled recklessly together. She could see a combat knife, a fighting staff, a bow with arrows. Or was the quarterstaff really an energy staff? And was that a jumble of ribbons made to wrap around a Goa’uld hand?
Never mind. She already had a weapon to hand, and the kraken was thrashing closer. She had to crane her head back to see it.
It didn’t frighten her. She never panicked in combat. Afterward, in the privacy of her own quarters, she might allow herself five minutes to shake like a leaf, cry, wonder how in the hell she’d survived when so many others in her circumstances hadn’t. But when it mattered, she kept her head and did what had to be done. It was something she was proud of, and it was a huge factor in her getting as far as she had in the Air Force.
So no damned nightmare out of nineteenth-century “scientifiction” was going to take her down now. Especially not when she was on vacation.
She fired—once, twice, three times. The brown eyes blinked in outright shock as a significant part of the kraken’s white head evaporated. In one of those frozen moments that seemed to last forever and never really did, she could see the sky and part of a cloud in the semicircular gap that took the place of its cranium. It hovered in place just long enough for her to raise the gun again, and then the thing toppled back into the sea with a mighty splash.
The impact triggered a larger wave, one that grew and grew and grew, towering over her. Overwhelming her. The curling rim of the wave was white with froth and spume, but unlike any other wave she had ever seen before, this one did not fall into itself.
It became a mountain, higher than Everest, the white wave rim solidifying and soaring white-capped into the clouds, its steep slopes rising from right in front of her to the skies above. What the sunlight lost in warmth it gained in brightness as it reflected off fields of snow dotted here and there with lonely outcrops of rock. She was no longer nude, but fully dressed in winter gear, and observing the mountain openmouthed through snow goggles and a rim of frost-repellent fur around the hood of her parka.
As she watched, thunder rumbled in the clear sky, and a massive sheet of snow cracked loose from the summit and hung in space for a paralyzing moment before roaring down at her. She flung the useless zat gun away and turned to run just as the avalanche reached her. For some reason the tropical island, complete with palm trees and sand and brightly colored birds and dead volcano cone, was still there, and she was running in place on the beach sand, her arctic boots digging in deep but taking her nowhere. At her feet, as she ran in place, she could see the crab rooting around in the pile of weapons, as if looking for a new shelter. She could feel the wall of snow thundering closer and closer.
She woke shaking, jerking her head around to find the threatening snowmass. It wasn’t there.
Nor was the beach, or the palm trees, or the parrots. Jimmy Buffett had definitely left the building.
She was in a small cave, lying near one wall. A few feet away, Daniel Jackson sprawled, muttering to himself as he slept. Teal’C slept on his back, as if at attention, and if anything, his habitual frown was engraved even deeper in his features. Closest to the entrance lay Jack O’Neill, prone and in the act of rolling over, flinging one arm as if to push someone or something away.
The sky outside was light. Sunrise was long past. Why wasn’t someone already awake, watching? What had happened to their defensive perimeter?
“Colonel O’Neill?” she called quietly, getting to her feet but keeping clear of her superior officer’s reach. “Sir?”
O’Neill mumbled, but failed to wake up completely.
She edged along the wall of the cave to check outside. The open patch of grass appeared empty and harmless. She could see easily through the scattered trees. A faint path led through them and out of sight. It too was empty.
She could hear the wind and birds and insects. The ever present fragrance of incense was hardly noticeable anymore; she had to concentrate to really smell it.
There were no suspicious solid patches in the boughs of the trees—patches that might turn out to be enemy snipers.
And despite what Daniel had said, there were absolutely no buildings in sight. Period.
Of course, she couldn’t see any frame, stucco, or brick houses either, but she didn’t really expect to. They’d left the town behind them when they were led to the cave for their second campsite. It was an isolated spot, deliberately chosen to be, she was sure. A sort of Kayeechi quarantine, in fact. It made sense to keep strangers far away until you were certain of their intentions.
Taking a deep breath, she decided that, as long as she was up, she’d better find the designated bush. There might not be time later, and besides, if the others woke up, the designated bush might turn out to be a roomful of windows. Too many things had a habit of changing abruptly around here.
Finishing without incident, she faded back into the cave, chose a small rock, and tossed it at her commanding officer from a safe distance.
O’Neill muttered angrily and shifted onto his back, shaking his head. Even in his sleep, he was feeling around for his rifle. He definitely wasn’t getting a lot of rest.
None of them were, she was willing to bet. She still felt tired, as if she really had run in sand while wearing a full arctic pack. It would be good to get back home and sleep in her own bed for a while.
“Colonel? Colonel!”
After a moment, O’Neill’s eyes snapped open. Even in the vague light near the back of the cave, she could see the resemblance between his sharp brown eyes and those of the kraken in her dream. Was her subconscious trying to tell her that her commander was a giant octopus with tentacles? And what exactly was he supposed to be using those tentacles for? She bit her Up hard to stifle her response to that image. Literally, she snickered, in my dreams!
But where had the avalanche come from? Was it one of Jolinar’s memories? Or was it an obscure Freudian message from the back of her brain that things were out of control, that she was feeling overwhelmed by events?
And why? She’d handled the kraken without much difficulty.
While she was mulling it over, O’Neill’s long body contracted, and when it straightened again, he was on his feet. The humor of the moment was gone. “Carter? What’s going on?”
“I don’t know, sir. I was sleeping, and when I woke up—”
“Is there
a problem?” It was Teal’C, sitting up. Characteristically, there didn’t seem to be any in-between drowsiness for the Jaffa; one moment he was sound asleep and the next wide-awake. It was a knack Carter wished she shared sometimes. It always took a major jolt of adrenaline for her to wake up that completely, and a jolt like that was never a good sign for how the day was going to go.
Between them, Jackson continued to mutter in his sleep. The two little lines between his eyebrows that meant he was thinking hard about something were deep and longer than usual. Carter stepped closer to hear what he was saying, but it was in ancient Egyptian. She hoped he was talking to Sha’re. She knew how much he missed his late wife. It would be nice if he could see her again, if only in his dreams.
But that wasn’t the issue right now. “Who’s on watch?” she asked, turning back to the others. The three of them looked at each other.
“I was,” O’Neill said slowly, running his hand through his hair. “I was, and I must have fallen asleep before I woke anyone else up.”
Carter blinked. Not that she would have expected any of them to fall asleep on watch, but… “That’s bizarre.” She moved past O’Neill to look out the mouth of the cave again. Nothing had changed in the past five minutes. “That’s not the kind of thing you do, sir.”
“I should hope the hell not.” He got up and looked over his weapons and their packs. “Is anything missing?”
Teal’C immediately started sorting through the packs. Next to him, Carter did the same thing, shoving one of Daniel’s arms out of the way to reach his. The archaeologist continued to mutter, now with a somewhat more aggrieved tone, but he did not wake up.
“Everything appears to be as it was,” Teal’C reported at last. Carter nodded in confirmation. “Is it possible that we were somehow drugged?”
“The food?” Carter suggested. “But you didn’t eat anything, sir.”
[Stargate SG-1 04] - The Morpheus Factor Page 7
