SG1-15 The Power Behind the Throne

by Savile, Steven

  All the mundanity of the room kept his attention from the one truly spectacular — and equally revolting — scene that dominated the chamber. His stomach lurched. He stepped further into the room. The lights around him shifted and he saw them; four stone tablets identical to the one he carried. Each was suspended from the ceiling on a grid of chain. There was space for the fifth and final tablet to be hung. The centerpiece of the macabre display — he didn’t know whether it was an experiment or a supposed piece of art — was a man.

  He was strapped down to a huge wooden wheel-like table, canted on its side so he appeared to be suspended, head down on his chest, arms pulled up in a painful vee along the spokes of the wheel.

  The hooks and barbs of the chains lashed him to the table.. IV lines snaked down toward him, intertwined with the chains. They were fed by clear plastic bags on stands — they could have been pumping anything into the wretched man’s body, anesthetic, nutrition, unguents or life-giving antibiotics, it was impossible to tell. He wore a ventilation mask. The rasp of the respirator breathing for him filled the room. It hissed and blew with a slow, regular rhythm. In. Hiss. Out. Blow. In. Hiss. Out. Blow. The mask itself had filmed with moisture. It was a tiny detail, but it made the horror all the more human for the grave robber. He couldn’t understand why the man was being kept alive — if that was what was happening here.

  “Now, what of this treasure?” Kelkus asked.

  He turned, grateful for something else to look at. Kelkus’ voice was brittle but his flesh was anything but. He towered over the grave robber by almost a full twelve inches, and was twice as broad across the shoulders. He was a brute of a man with matted unwashed hair hanging down lankly across his face. It didn’t mask the spider web of shrapnel scars that ruined the entire left side of his face.

  “Here,” the grave robber said.

  “Give it to me.”

  He did.

  Kelkus peeled back the rag-cloth wrap slowly, almost reverentially, corner by corner to expose the stone tablet. He studied the markings. The grave robber didn’t need to look at them; he remembered precisely what was carved into the stone. The central image was a cross, a man being crucified in its cross-brace. It was a crude rendition of humanity, the face almost alien in its simplicity. Wrapped around the figure’s left ankle was a serpent. Its tail coiled up around the man’s leg to his waist, and seemed to emerge from a wound in his stomach. On each limb of the cross were representations of the elements, earth, wind, fire and water, and beyond them, more crude carvings, the words lament, grief, mourning and suffering, and a single symbol that marked eternity. The tablet encompassed the elements, time, and mortality all in one image. It was the final line of symbols that offered the proof Corvus Keen sought, the knowledge that this species came from beyond the stars.

  Kelkus brushed his fingers over the tablet, feeling out every cranny carved into the stone as though he might somehow read its story in the language of the blind. He lingered over the image of the serpent.

  “Now this is a treasure,” he said. “You shall be rewarded, of course. First, though, help me hang this.”

  “Of course,” the grave robber said, wondering how he could possibly help attach the tablet to the chains without having to see the man on the wheel. He couldn’t. Together, they heaved the tablet into place. The hooks sank with surprising ease into the stone. As the first barb pierced the stone the grave robber felt a shiver of coldness thrill through his fingertips, almost as though the thing were alive. When the second barb pierced the stone it was worse.

  “Oh yes, yes, yes, yes,” Kelkus crooned. He turned about in a full circle, repeating each of the lines engraved upon the five stones one after another as though voicing an incantation. In between the words he heard a crack, a deep, stone-tearing noise that couldn’t be anything else. The grave robber looked up, following the direction of the sound. He half expected to see the ceiling beginning to crumble and come down. A second later a fresh crack split through the heart of the fifth stone tablet, the fissure running through the center of the crucified man. A third rending crack cleaved the thing in two.

  Something was moving. Coming out of the ruined stone.

  “What is it?” he gasped, stumbling back a step.

  “Divinity,” Kelkus said. “Bow down, little man, you are in the presence of the gods!”

  He shook his head, denying the evidence of his own eyes. The thing Kelkus called a god slithered out of the ruined stone. It came an inch at a time, sinuous and sure, tasting the air. It took him a moment to realize what it was: a serpent. The serpent coiled around the iron chain suspended from the ceiling and climbed.

  In a curious gesture that was almost tender, Kelkus pulled the breathing mask off the man and ran his fingers through his matted hair. Then all pretense at tenderness disappeared as he yanked the man’s head back, forcing his mouth wide open in a scream that lacked only the sound of agony. Everything else was burned in the dying man’s face.

  As the serpent wound itself around the chains the grave robber backed away from the center of the circle, bumping into the table in his hurry to be out of the crypt. The ripple of motion along the iron links almost dislodged the snake. The creature hissed, opening its mouth impossibly wide. All he could think, staring at it, was that it had too many teeth. It was unlike any snake he had seen in his life.

  And then it started to move again, coiling down the links until it reached the man’s hand, and down the length of his forearm, leaving a mucus trail behind it.

  Kelkus yanked on the man’s hair again, forcing the wretch’s mouth wider.

  The serpent’s tail lashed against his clavicle, and then with a sudden and shocking flurry of motion, reared up and plunged into the man’s gaping mouth.

  The grave robber stared, trapped in abject horror. His muscles refused to obey his mind. All he wanted to do was run but they wouldn’t let him. The convulsions tore at the man’s emaciated frame, and then his head came up, eyes blazing cold gold, a new found strength in his bones, and he surely heard the voice of the dead as the man rasped, “I am your God, worship me!” He pulled free from the chains and rose from the table. There was no pain in his face now, only strength. Glory.

  The grave robber fell on his knees and wept.

  Kelkus knelt beside him, eyes burning as he surrendered to the revelation.

  “I live to serve,” he said.

  “Yes,” the god said, “you do.”

  Chapter Five

  One of Us

  The Tok’ra emissary came through the Stargate less than an hour later. She was grim-faced and wore her grief like a crown as she walked down the ramp. Her descent was slow and measured, her curiosity had her eyes darting across the room, taking it all in. O’Neill knew the routine, this one was a soldier. It was in her bearing, the way in which she carried herself and, most tellingly of all, the way with which she familiarized herself with possibly hostile territory. She was scoping out potential exits before she had even entered the room. The woman made no attempt to mask her annoyance at the muzzles aiming at her as she studied the faces of the Tau’ri watching her. “Which of you is Hammond of the Tau’ri?” Her voice had that brusque metallic echo of the symbiote talking through its host. The inhuman resonance never failed to unnerve him.

  Hammond inclined his bald head slightly, almost deferentially, and stepped forward. He began to greet the woman but was cut off by her puzzled frown. “Ah, I was led to believe you were a great warrior… you do not look so great.”

  “Appearances can be deceptive,” O’Neill said, putting himself between the general and the emissary. He couldn’t help himself; something about the woman just irked him. “You, after all, look like a lady.” The words were out of his mouth before he could stop himself.

  “That is quite enough, Colonel O’Neill,” Hammond said, cutting him off before he could talk himself into trouble.

  “Quite,” the woman said. Jack detected the hint of a self-deprecating smile. It took him a mome
nt to realize that she was agreeing with him, not Hammond. It was enough to have Jack reassess his immediate dislike: perhaps she wasn’t quite so irksome after all. “And you must be the one they call O’Neill.”

  He grinned. “Nice to see my reputation precedes me.”

  “Oh, it most certainly does. If you have accomplished half the things we are led to believe, you are most certainly a worthy ally.”

  “Thank you, I think. You seem to have the advantage here, what with us being so famous and all. You, on the other hand are?”

  Her smile broadened slightly. “I am Jerichau of the Tok’ra, I share this body with Selina Ros, my host,” she introduced herself. Jack pulled a face, making a show of trying to remember if he had heard of her. “We received your transmission, there is much we must talk about.”

  “Isn’t there always?” Jack said.

  “Can we talk somewhere…” Jerichau gestured toward the line of guns, “away from all of the weapons?”

  “Of course. The briefing room,” Hammond said. “Teal’c, Doctor Jackson, Major Carter, if you would care to join us? At ease, everyone.”

  The six of them adjourned to the solitude of the briefing room and settled themselves around the conference table. The lighting in the room was subdued. Jack pressed his palms down flat against the tabletop. He could feel the eddies of the air-conditioning blowing around them.

  “Talk to us,” he told Jerichau without looking up. There was no preamble. Now was not the time for it. The Tok’ra obviously knew more than they would let on. They played their little games of politics about as well as Daniel played poker. He tried to put aside his natural mistrust but as long as they were playing with a loaded deck he was going to be suspicious — it was thinking like that that kept him alive.

  “We have reason to believe that your visitor was indeed Tok’ra.”

  “Go on.”

  “Much is unknown and will remain so until we have the chance to examine the remains, but Nyren Var was working to recover a weapon of sorts. She has been out of contact for several cycles now. In her last transmission she reported that the Goa’uld were aware of the weapon and had sent Jaffa to hunt it down.”

  “I’m not sure I follow,” Hammond interrupted. “Why would they need to hunt for a weapon? That’s a peculiar choice of words, isn’t it?”

  “Indeed it is, General, but no less accurate for it. The weapon in question is a living thing. A creature known as Mujina.”

  “Okay, now you’ve got my attention,” O’Neill said, looking up from his hands. “What are we talking about here? Big? Small? Breathes fire? Lay it on me.”

  “Mujina is an archetypal creature, O’Neill.”

  “And what’s that supposed to mean?”

  It was Daniel who answered, not the Tok’ra woman. He pushed his glasses back along his nose. “Archetypes are personality templates, Jack. Joseph Campbell identified them during his research into the monomyth, the single story that is at the root of all the others. There’s the Mentor, the Hero, ah, others that are more obscure, like the threshold guardian, or the herald, then, more interestingly, the shadow, which is the embodiment of everything we would like to defeat, and the shapeshifter —”

  “Now hold on a minute,” O’Neill cut across Daniel. “Are you telling me this ‘weapon’ has the ability to change shape? That’s a bit more than breathing fire…”

  “Not physically, I doubt,” Daniel said, and then turned to Jerichau for confirmation or denial. “Shapeshifting in this respect relates more to the fact that the shapeshifter is more of a catalyst, it makes things happen and you are never quite sure as to its allegiances.”

  “So it can’t change shape?”

  “Jerichau?”

  “Doctor Jackson is quite right in his summation of the Mujina’s gifts. It is an archetypal creature, a blank slate if you like, capable of being all things to all people, from hero to shadow, shapeshifter and trickster.”

  “So you’re saying it isn’t to be trusted.”

  “In the wrong hands nothing is, Colonel O’Neill,” the Tok’ra said.

  “And, let’s be blunt, the wrong hands would be Goa’uld,” Jack finished the thought for everyone around the table. Jerichau nodded. “Now, let me get this straight,” he said, “this creature, whatever you call it, how many of them are there? I mean are we talking about mom and pop and baby Mujina makes three, or are we talking about a planetful of happy little shapeshifters?”

  “There is only one Mujina, Colonel O’Neill, and the planet Nyren Var found it on, Vasaveda, was its prison.”

  “And there goes the other shoe,” Jack said.

  Teal’c raised a questioning eyebrow.

  “Oh come on, you heard the weapon comment. A prison the size of a planet must make it one hell of a critter.”

  “Imagine the greatest evil of your time, that could be a reflection of Mujina, but conversely Mujina has the potential to be the greatest hero known to your people.”

  “All things to everyone,” Daniel said. “The only place it is safe from the reflection of evil is away from everyone else. Can you imagine this in someone like Apophis’ hands?” He looked at Teal’c. The Jaffa said nothing.

  “I’d rather not.”

  “A dark and hungry god arises,” Jerichau said. The metallic quality of her tone shifted, becoming immediately softer and more feminine. “That is why Nyren Var had to find the creature first, so it could never be turned fully into the weapon it has the potential to be. It needs people around it to define it.”

  “How did the Goa’uld find out about the Mujina?” Sam asked, speaking up for the first time.

  “There is only one way,” Selina Ros admitted. “The information must have come from within the Tok’ra; which means there is a traitor within our number.” Her voice shifted, dopplering down to the metallic chill of the symbiote’s filtered tone. Her face twisted in revulsion, her lips suddenly thin and blanched of color. “Which is impossible, so thinking about it serves no one,” Jerichau finished for her host.

  “So, to get back to the smoking hand,” O’Neill said, making it quite plain that he didn’t swallow Jerichau’s protestations any more than Selina Ros did. It was interesting, seeing the host and symbiote openly disagree. He couldn’t remember having seen it in any of the Tok’ra he had met before. “Your woman went to this prison, found the creature in all of its glory, but was compromised before she could exfiltrate?”

  “I do not think, Colonel O’Neill, I fear, there is a difference. The planet of the Mujina lies in interdicted space, out far beyond the protection of the Asgard. It was banished centuries before, when all reason would have seen the creature put to death. Now we face the consequences of our predecessor’s vacillation.”

  “You can’t kill it because of its nature, that’s inhumane,” Daniel objected. “If what you say is right, it isn’t inherently evil, not as we would understand it, and left alone it isn’t dangerous. So by any conceivable measure that would be cold blooded murder.”

  “Which is precisely the argument they made, and yet by showing mercy and seeking to hide it, the Ancients have left us vulnerable. So which is the greater wisdom, Doctor Jackson? The death of one or the death of many? Which would your conscience prefer? What would appease your guilt? Perhaps you would sacrifice worlds?”

  “That is enough, Jerichau,” Hammond said, his voice every bit as cold and alien as the Tok’ra’s.

  “As you say, Hammond of the Tau’ri,” Jerichau ceded.

  “There’s still something you aren’t saying,” Jack said. It had been bothering him from the start.

  “Does it really need saying?”

  “I’d like to hear it anyway,” O’Neill said.

  “Very well. We cannot risk Mujina’s unique gifts being twisted to the will of the Goa’uld.”

  “Which means you want us to go find it and clean up the mess your Neryn Var has left behind, right?”

  “We do not have the resources to fight the Jaffa face to f
ace, our strength is infiltration, working in the shadows. That is where we are best deployed in this long game. You, however, Colonel O’Neill, are very much soldiers. This is the side of the fight where your kind excel.”

  “Flattery will get you everywhere,” Jack said wryly.

  Chapter Six

  My Hero

  The creature huddled up against the hot wall.

  It was alone.

  That was its curse.

  It was always alone.

  All it wanted — in this world or any other — was company. It had never needed more. Never wanted more. It craved nearness. It hungered for the proximity of thoughts and minds, the needs of hopes and dreams. But that was all. It had never harmed anyone. It was not evil.

  It was not this thing they accused it of being when they passed down their judgment. They acted like gods of the galaxies lording it over the lesser species, claiming to protect those too weak to stand up to the aggressors, but that was the nature of survival, the galaxies were divided into two kinds of species, the predators and the prey. They judged it a predator, which was cruel, and the punishment they meted out was vile in its harshness.

  It was no predator. All it ever wanted was to help, to serve the needs of those near it so that they might like it. Its needs were childish in their simplicity.

  How could that ever be wrong?

  But their words still echoed in its ears all these centuries later: Vile. Evil. Corrupt. Dangerous. An abomination. A threat. Against the natural order.

  It pleaded and whimpered but they would not listen. They did not care. They would not look it in the eye as they sought to silence it, to stifle it, to lock it away alone in the dark and leave it to die.