by Jamie Duncan
Reasonably good, but not the best, Selmak informed him, and nudged to take over. Jacob allowed it, and felt himself sliding to the rear of his body, shifting into the passenger role. When Selmak spoke, even Jacob responded to the ring of authority in his tone. “Let us discuss this unformed plan,” Selmak said. “And let us discuss what will be required of us when we reach Boch’s homeworld.”
“I had assumed we would attempt to contact SG-1 and, failing that, initiate a search for them on the planet’s surface, using our instruments,” Malek said. He glanced up at Selmak. “No different than we have done in countless other situations.”
“No different,” Selmak agreed. Jacob could tell he was weighing many things about Malek’s demeanor, looking for signs he could trust him, but Selmak didn’t seem to be finding what he was looking for. While he acknowledged Jacob’s impatience, he cautioned against precipitous judgment. Instead, he said, “But I notice you do not say we will attempt a rescue, only that we will attempt contact and search. I must have confidence that we are of similar mind on this, Malek.”
“Selmak, I have apologized for my behavior.” Malek sat back in the chair and, after a moment, said, “I have not always been wise where the survival of our people is concerned. I do not claim I have been. And I do not claim the Tok’ra are always wise, but they are adept at survival. Perhaps I have absorbed only the latter and less of the former.”
“Perhaps.” Selmak met Malek’s direct, open gaze, and nodded slowly. Jacob could feel the decision forming. “We cannot make a direct landing unless we can find a way to blend among the people. Our efforts may be in vain.”
“If SG-1 is dead already, then that is so. If they live still, then there is a purpose to going. It is possible they are no longer held there. There are many variables.” Malek paused, then said more softly, “I know Jacob thinks of his daughter. I too would be focused on saving someone I love.”
“He thinks not only of her, but of his friends,” Selmak said, brushing aside Jacob’s defensive bristling, which Selmak felt was irrelevant. “Our friends.”
“Of course.” Malek inclined his head to acknowledge his error and turned back to the console. Selmak stood and made his way to the supply crates loaded in the cargo hold. In the first crate, six zats lay nestled in padding. Jacob didn’t try to conceal his satisfaction when Selmak used one of them to stun Malek into unconsciousness before giving control of Jacob’s body back to him.
“You were right,” Jacob said aloud, as he dragged Malek from the ship and gently laid him on the dusty ground.
There is purpose to the mission, whether SG-1 is alive or dead, Selmak answered. Malek’s failure to understand this shows us where his true sympathies may be found, even if he is not consciously aware of it.
“Better safe than sorry,” Jacob murmured. Under his steady hands, the tel’tak rose through the atmosphere, bound for Atropos.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Aris didn’t expect the wave of relief that rolled over him and knocked him back a step. He put out a hand to catch O’Neill by the shoulder of his jacket as O’Neill’s legs buckled a little. In front of them, Jackson stopped walking and his head fell back, mouth gaping, eyes closed, before he fell, going straight down onto his knees with a crunch that made Aris wince, even though Jackson himself didn’t seem to feel it. But Jackson’s hands came out to break his fall as he tumbled forward, head hanging, breath panting a little.
“God,” he mumbled. “That’s—”
“I don’t think God has much to do with it,” O’Neill said in a whisper that was a sort of freakish combination of reverence and barely-contained anger. He shook off Aris’ hand and went to stand next to Jackson. O’Neill’s hands twitched as he looked down at him.
Aris’ own hand hovered again over the last packet of roshna concealed beneath his armor. He wanted it more than he’d ever wanted anything. No. That wasn’t true. More than roshna, he wanted to make that last turn in the hallway, because that was what the relief was about. The whole place seemed to be shuddering with it. Light was dancing in the walls around them, practically strobing, and somehow, even though it hurt his eyes to look at it, it felt like joy. It was as if he were five steps away from the best thing he could imagine, or something even better than the best thing he could imagine, which was maybe why he couldn’t picture at all what it might be. All he knew was that he wanted it, the way he wanted roshna, like a physical yearning in his blood and his bones. It was the kind of wanting that could make a grown man fall to his knees.
“Move it,” he said. He pushed past O’Neill, stepped over Jackson’s legs, and turned the corner.
The sudden expansion of the endless claustrophobic hallways of the maze into this open space made him stumble, as though he’d looked down and found himself on the edge of a cliff. His arms even snapped out at his sides as though he were falling. And the whole room was bright with swirling light in every color imaginable, coursing away from him along the walls and rising up like flood water to crest and surge along a ceiling high above his head. He raised a hand to shield his eyes as he looked up. There was no way to judge distance. As his gaze swept down and around, he could gauge only that the room was roughly circular, but even that was a guess, prompted by the feeling that he was hanging in the center of a soap bubble, free-floating in shimmering iridescence. He stamped the floor once with his boot to make sure it was still there.
“Whoa,” O’Neill said from behind him.
“Yeah,” Jackson answered.
These guys were the masters of understatement, Aris thought. He had no idea what he could do with the contents of this room, but that didn’t matter much. It was his. He could feel it sizzling inside him, making his brain sparkle. Better than roshna. Better than… anything.
Jackson started to move, and Aris shot out an arm to catch him across the neck, stopping him before he could get ahead. “This is mine, remember?” Aris said.
“I thought it was for your people,” O’Neill said acidly from behind him.
“I am my people.”
“You don’t even know what you have here,” O’Neill went on. “You don’t know anything about it. You can’t even use it.”
“It doesn’t want either of you.”
His voice low and distant, Jackson was still straining against Aris’ arm. For a second, Aris was surprised that he could hear him at all, because the light seemed loud, as though it should be drowning out every sound but its own celebration. But Jackson’s soft voice carried clearly, making the silence of the room apparent, and Aris got that free-falling feeling again. Instead of stamping his boot, he shoved back against Jackson, who barely budged.
“It doesn’t want you,” Jackson whispered again, and his eyes were wide with realization. “It wants us.” The last words weren’t soft anymore. And the eyes weren’t blue anymore. Gold flashed there and the mouth twisted into an arrogant sneer.
Aris pushed himself away from Sebek and raised his gun. O’Neill took a step back, too, and he looked pained, betrayed, resigned. Sebek’s gaze slid from Aris to O’Neill, narrowed, assessing. His hands closed into tight fists, the tendons in his arms standing out, muscles flexing with withheld violence.
Around them, the light lunged and pulsed, flared white-hot and then went out completely.
The memory of light swirled across Aris’ retinas, hot blue and slow-burning red. He blinked it away, and then the only thing visible in the place was the tiny flicker of the power-indicator in the grip of his blaster.
After a long pause, O’Neill offered a hissed assessment: “Crap.”
“Yeah,” Jackson replied, in Jackson’s voice.
“Dark,” O’Neill added.
“Yes, seems that way, doesn’t it?” Jackson said. Pause. “Does anybody still have a flashlight?”
Aris snapped open a pocket on his thigh and pulled out his light, aiming it in the direction of Jackson’s voice before turning it on.
What he saw wasn’t Jackson or even Sebek’s ugly
smile, but his own face, twice, distorted grotesquely. He jumped back and snapped the blaster out to the length of his arm, barely keeping his finger off the trigger. As his eyes adjusted, he saw that the ghosts were reflections in a pair of mirrored eyes. The tiny scales around them shifted a little as the mouth below opened into a sharp-toothed smile, and the movement sent rainbowed sparks of light dancing across Aris’ extended arm. He backed up another step and tilted the light so that more of the woman came into view—or didn’t, really, as it turned out. For a second he thought she was wearing armor like his. When he moved, the black shapes on her shoulders and chest moved as well, and he realized that this, too, was a reflection. She seemed to fade from existence below the waist, but when the light played across her invisible legs, more sparks flickered across the floor and over Jackson’s boots.
Jackson was still there, behind her, O’Neill beyond him, braced for a fight in contrast to his earlier glib tone, with his head tilted so that he could see around Jackson. Aris noticed that the woman didn’t cast a shadow, and he wondered what O’Neill was seeing. Probably Aris aiming at nothing, or maybe an outline, like the sun lighting the curve of a planet. O’Neill saw something though, because he grunted and tilted his head the other way before saying, “Huh.”
His expression rapt, Jackson took a step forward. Aris shifted his aim.
“Back off,” Aris ordered.
Jackson blinked rapidly a couple of times, raised a hand to wave Aris out of his field of attention, and took another step. One stride brought Aris close enough to angle his arm over the woman’s shoulder and plant the blaster in the middle of Jackson’s chest.
“I said back off,” Aris repeated evenly. Beneath his arm, the woman stood motionless. Her mirrored eyes were a couple of inches from his chin, looking up at him. He let his gaze slip down to meet them, but his own distorted face glared back and he looked quickly away. Where her body came close to his—not quite touching him—he could feel a chill, a dry cold parching his skin under his armor. He could picture frost feathering upward across his chest and stifled a shiver.
The woman opened her mouth again, ran her pink tongue across her lips. She looked over her shoulder at Jackson. When she turned back to Aris, she said, “Shhhh.”
Aris felt it pass over his skin like water seething up a beach. Jackson’s eyelids fluttered and closed. He felt it too. O’Neill’s raised fist loosened and fell to his side.
“At last,” the woman said. Her voice was rich and low, but thin, like an echo of something else, something far away. The frost seemed to crackle, crystals growing, spearing through Aris’ brain. He had to clench his fingers tighter around the light to keep from dropping it and rubbing at his temple instead. “Have you come for what I offer?”
Jackson’s answer was barely a breath of sound. “Yes.”
“Daniel,” O’Neill warned.
Jackson’s head snapped around to look at him. “Yes,” Sebek said.
The woman smiled again. She stepped away from Aris and ducked under his arm to walk a slow circle around the three men. Where the light hit her, she seemed to flare into existence, sending more slivers of color across the floor, over their skin and clothing as she passed them. Aris tried to make out first Sebek’s and then O’Neill’s face in her eyes, but failed. It didn’t matter. He knew what he’d see: Sebek’s expression triumphant, O’Neill’s wary.
Her circuit completed, she stopped in front of Sebek and rose up on her toes to look closely at his face. He bowed his head toward her, his mouth opening as if waiting for her kiss. The jealousy that knifed through Aris’ chest made him growl, but the woman held a hand out to him, palm outward and, although Aris had been starting to move, he stopped, his changing momentum carrying him back onto his heels.
“I have waited for someone to come. Someone with the intelligence to take what I have to give,” she murmured, her lips almost touching Sebek’s. “You are beautiful.”
“I wouldn’t get too close to him, if I were you,” O’Neill said from the gloom beyond the circle of light. “He’s not as beautiful on the inside.”
Her hand almost touching Sebek’s hair, she hesitated, shifted her attention to O’Neill. “Are you?”
He hesitated too. Finally, he answered, “No. Not really.”
Her smile seemed oddly satisfied when she met Sebek’s unflinching stare, her hand still hovering above the side of his face. “I can give you everything,” she said, drawing her middle finger—still not touching—down across his cheek, along his jaw, up and over his bottom lip. Sebek’s eyes slid shut again, and he shuddered visibly.
“Like what?” O’Neill asked.
This time, when she shifted her gaze, it was a sharp movement of irritation. “Everything,” she repeated, her voice colder, like a shard of glass. She waved her hand at the space around them, and the light in the walls started to flow again, subtle, muted. “All that is in this place. Everything I protect.” Her lips pulled back a little, showing more teeth before she modulated the expression into a smile. “Powerful things.” She caressed Sebek’s lip, her finger a hair’s breadth away, and he shuddered again. “Violent things. Beautiful things.”
“Yes,” Sebek said, the hollow rumble of his voice softened so that he almost sounded like Jackson.
Aris’ vision dimmed and, instead of the room and the woman and Sebek swaying and stupefied in front of her, he saw a star field, a planet banded in red and yellow, a space station silhouetted in front of it. Arcing around from the night side of the planet were a dozen arrow-head ships. The space in front of them flickered with weapons fire as they bore down on the station. There was a pulse of light from the station, and in an instant the smaller ships were gone, not even debris left to show they’d ever been there.
Aris staggered and recovered, blinking hard. When his vision cleared, he found O’Neill hunched over with his fist in his eye, Sebek where he had been, eyes still closed, but a smile broadening on his face.
“Free me and I will show you more. All of it,” the woman breathed against Sebek’s lips. “The time is short. We must go now, before all this is lost.”
“You won’t be giving him anything,” O’Neill said, his voice strained as he straightened to face her squarely. “He’s not the kind of person you want to be doing business with. Now, me, on the other hand—”
This time, Aris didn’t contain his growl. With a quick shift of his weight, he leaned around Sebek and the woman and aimed a shot at O’Neill’s head. O’Neill caught the movement and ducked when Aris fired, the shot going over the target and into the wall. Sparks showered out and the screech that came with them sliced through Aris’ head so painfully that he dropped the flashlight to cover one of his ears. He was still reeling from it when Sebek caught him by the throat, slipped a foot behind his ankle, and threw him to the floor.
“Don’t.” It was Jackson, now, who leaned all his weight into keeping Aris still under him. He was as powerful as Aris knew he would be, his strength augmented by Sebek’s, and his grip on Aris’ wrist was viselike, squeezing until Aris’ fingers opened and the blaster clattered free. He brought his face close to Aris’. “You aren’t helping.”
Around them, the light surged like heaving breath, white-hot, shadow-cold, and the screaming voice rose, thinned, stretched taut to a keening that faded from hearing until it ended in a heart-wrenching sob. A child crying, inconsolable.
Aris turned his head, looked past his empty hand at the woman, whose head was bowed. She was shivering.
“You must not destroy each other,” she said, her voice muffled. “You have much to give. So much to take.”
Beyond her, O’Neill stood in the wild light, framed by the ugly black scar on the wall. His face was twisted, winced up on one side against the noise. Aris wondered what her tears would look like. If they could slice open skin.
After a moment, her shivering eased, and with the change, the lights changed as well. The room was bathed in a pale, shifting blue glow, like sunlight seen
from underwater, and time seemed to slow down. Aris felt Jackson loosen his grip, and he took the opportunity to shove him away and roll to his feet. Jackson remained where he was, lying on his back on the floor, arms splayed, gazing upward. When Aris snagged his blaster again and aimed it down at him, Jackson only snorted out a small laugh and kept staring at the ceiling. In spite of himself, Aris smiled and let the blaster fall against his thigh. He had no fight in him. The light was lilting. He was drifting. Distantly, he knew that this wasn’t right. Nothing here was right, but the thought was far, far off, and the woman was right there, looking up at him, and even without real eyes, she looked beautiful, better than roshna. His blood felt hot even though the room was cool and he was floating.
O’Neill was still on one knee, cradling his injured hand. His eyes were squeezed shut. He was perfectly motionless, a tight knot of resistance. As Aris sank into the calming light, he felt pity for O’Neill. Give in, he thought, and the thought had a high, thin voice.
O’Neill didn’t look like he was giving in. Poor bastard.
“Soon this place will die, and all here will be lost,” the woman said, with a sad smile. “But I have it all, here. Millions of memories. The lives of thousands. Wonders.” She laid a hand on the side of her head. Aris noticed that each finger ended in a silver talon. “I can give you what you seek. If you take me out of here. If you take me out.” She was looking at O’Neill, but her gaze slid away, slipped across Aris, and settled on Jackson, whose eyes were closed.
“I was right,” he said. “I knew it.”
“Take me out and I can show you.”
The words seemed to echo inside Aris’ head, coming and going like waves on sand. His eyes drifted shut. He swayed on the ebb and flow, and nodded numbly. He held out his hand toward her—he could see her without his eyes—
