Stargate SG-1 30 - Insurrection

by Sally Malcolm

  * * *

  At least the Wraith shield wasn’t subtle.

  It stretched over the lab doors with a sickly green hue, shimmering and distorting everything behind it.

  Jack crouched behind a turn in the corridor, using a clump of ‘hive-flesh’ as cover and trying not to breathe its faintly acrid smell. He could see figures moving behind the shield—ordinary Wraith, by the look of them. But maybe hybrids…

  Retreating back to where Sting was waiting, he said, “I see six in there.” Three-to-one: he didn’t like their odds.

  “Yes, I can sense them. But we will have the element of surprise.”

  Jack raised an eyebrow. “They’re gonna need to be really surprised.”

  “Our objective must be the destruction of the facility and of any hybrids in incubation. Our survival is secondary to that objective.”

  “Speak for yourself.”

  “If we fail here—”

  “I’m not planning to fail. And I’m not planning to die.” He threw a glance at Sting, taking in his long colorless hair with the slender braid down one side. The Goa’uld were ostentatious bastards—everything about them was designed to intimidate and impress—but the Wraith looked like they prided themselves on their appearance for different reasons. More human reasons, if that was the right word. “I’m gonna guess that Earthborn wouldn’t consider your survival as secondary to the mission.”

  Sting’s eyes flared wide in outrage, his chin lifting. “My queen—”

  “Cut the crap, Sting,” Jack sighed. “I saw her when she thought you were dying. So don’t go all smoking martyr on me, okay? We both have reasons to get out of this alive.”

  After a long, silent pause Sting said, “And your reason is Major Carter?”

  He allowed a half smile, a slight shake of his head. Touché. “My team,” he said. “My friends.” He glanced up, fixing him with a steady look. “My planet.”

  “I do not intend to die,” Sting said. “However, if it is necessary…”

  “How about we make sure it isn’t?” Jack blew out a breath. “That explosive you’re packing? Does it have a timer?”

  “It does. And it should allow sufficient time for Carter and… O’Kane to reach the second generator.” Sting hesitated before saying the name, as if it was strange to think of his slave as someone with a name—and all that a name implied. “But they must be swift.”

  “Otherwise we’ll be strawberry jelly along with the hybrids. I get it.”

  Sting blinked at him. “If by that you mean dead, then yes. The explosive is powerful enough to leave little behind at close proximity.”

  “Nice.” Jack shifted, easing the pressure on his bad knee. “So we get in there, set the charge, and then hold them off until Carter gets the shield back down. And hope no one sends backup.”

  Sting nodded. “As you might say, it ‘sounds like a plan.’”

  Sounds like a crappy plan. Not to mention an incomplete one; there was the little matter of getting hold of a hybrid to take back to Hecate… Fact was, there was no way he could do that without Sting’s help. And that meant he needed to explain a few things.

  Jack took a breath, tugged at the bill of his cap. “Listen,” he said, glancing over at Sting. “There’s something else.”

  He sensed, rather than saw, Sting stiffen. It was more like a shift in the air between them, a cooling of comradeship into unease. “What do you mean?”

  “I—There’s something else I need to do in there.”

  Sting narrowed his eyes. “We are here to destroy the hybrids,” he said. “What else would you need to do?”

  “I need to take one,” he said. “I need to take one of the hybrids.”

  “Why?” Sting’s lip curled over his sharp teeth in a breathy snarl. “They are abominations. They must be destroyed.”

  “They are,” he agreed. “And they must, I agree. But…” And, crap, but he felt guilty. “Look, what if there were other hybrids, someplace else? We’ve already seen one lab on Earth. Who’s to say there aren’t others?”

  “Then we destroy them too—once we have control of the Ancestor’s city.”

  Jack rubbed at the back of his neck. “But what if there was another way?”

  Sting’s fingers flexed and Jack swallowed the memories of the dead dropping, shriveled, to the floor. “I do not like deception, O’Neill. You made a deal with Earthborn. This was not part of it.”

  “You’re right,” he said. “I did make a deal with Earthborn. But I also made a deal with Hecate.”

  Sting snarled, jumping to his feet. “You have betrayed us!” His stunner was already in his hand, rising.

  “No!” Jack help up both hands. “Keep your voice down, will you?”

  “You are spies of the parasite-god! You—”

  “Okay, this is why I didn’t tell you in the first place!” Jack hissed. “I’m not her spy. I hate the Goa’uld. Trust me. But she has a way to kill all the hybrids—all the Wraith waiting to become hybrids.”

  Sting surged forward, grabbed Jack by his jacket and slammed him up against the wall. “You fool. She lies, she does nothing but lie. Her kind is without honor.”

  “Hey!” Jack shoved Sting’s hands away. “I know, okay? I know. But—Maybe she’s not like the others? She’s—” It was difficult to explain; he wasn’t convinced of it himself, not wholly. “The woman whose body she’s possessing was a good friend of mine. Of all of us. And she’s… Look, I don’t trust Hecate, but she’s been fighting for Earth for decades. And she has every reason to want the hybrids dead.”

  “She wants us all dead,” Sting spat. “Still, years after the war ended, her forces harry us.” He tipped his head, studying Jack with cold eyes. “Who do you think shot me down that day you first found me?”

  “Like I said, she’s been fighting for Earth.”

  “The parasite-gods fight only for themselves.”

  But not Janet. “Look, I hate freakin’ snake-heads. Hate ’em. But I have to believe that Hecate is different—that Fraiser has influenced her somehow.”

  “Fraiser is the human she possesses?”

  “Yeah, and she would never—” She would never want to be a Goa’uld. Jack pushed that thought aside. “Look, you both want the same thing; Hecate wants the Wraith gone from this galaxy and you want to go.”

  “Hecate wants the Wraith dead.”

  “Not if she has a faster option!” His voice echoed along the corridor and he winced at the sound. Jamming a lid on his anger, he tried to channel Daniel’s diplomatic mojo instead. It didn’t exactly come naturally. “Earthborn,” he said, quietly, “is someone Hecate can work with once the hybrids are dead. Hecate wants to leave Earth, you want to leave the galaxy… And, frankly, we want you both gone. Everyone’s a happy camper.”

  Sting bared his teeth in irritation. “I did not take you for a fool, O’Neill.”

  “Good. Because I’m not.” He leaned against the wall, and tried not to cringe at the give of the hive-flesh at his back. “Look, Sting, this is the only way. Help me bag one of the hybrids, then come with me when I take it to Hecate. We all want the same damned thing here and the only way to get it is to work together.”

  But Sting just shook his head, hissing in a breath. “It is one thing,” he said, “to ally myself with humans. But to ally myself with an avowed enemy of my species? That is too far.”

  Jack lifted an eyebrow. “I know plenty of people who’d say the same about an alliance with the Wraith. But here we are.”

  “Wraith and humans are not enemies; we do not seek the extermination of your species.”

  Jack barked a laugh. “Looks kinda different from where I’m standing, buddy.”

  Turning his head away, drawing back a step, Sting said, “You did not tell Earthborn of your agreement with Hecate.”

  “No.” There was no way around that one. “Would she have agreed if I had?”

  There was a long pause before Sting answered. “These are uneasy alliances
, O’Neill, and dangerous times. I cannot answer for her.”

  “Then answer for yourself: will you help me?”

  Sting’s gaze swung back to Jack, and despite his alien features his disquiet was evident. “I cannot trust Hecate. But… I find that I do trust you.”

  Jack swallowed; that was a weight of responsibility and he was pretty certain he didn’t deserve Sting’s trust. But he’d asked for it and had no damned choice but to shoulder the load. Standing up straighter he said, “We have an expression where I’m from: my enemy’s enemy is my friend.” He clapped a hand on Sting’s shoulder. “So I guess that makes us friends.”

  Sting glanced down at Jack’s hand on his arm, then copied the gesture. Jack tried not to wince at the feel of claws digging through his jacket sleeve into his muscle. “At least until our mutual enemy is defeated.”

  Jack raised an eyebrow, but didn’t comment; there were a lot of bridges to cross before they got to that point. Instead, he reached for his radio and toggled it on.

  “Carter, O’Neill. Sit rep.”

  After a hiss of static, her voice came back. “We’re in the generator room, sir. Working on getting the shield down. What’s your position?”

  “Outside the lab. I’ve got eyes on the shield. What’s the ETA on getting it down?”

  A longer pause, then, “Couple minutes, sir?”

  “I counted six Wraith inside the lab,” he said. “Appreciate it if you could get that second generator down ASAP. We won’t be able to hold them long.” He didn’t tell her about the timer on the grenade; she’d work as fast as she could and the added pressure wouldn’t help.

  His radio cracked again. “Understood, sir. Stand by. Carter out.”

  He released the radio and fixed his eyes on Sting. “We get outa this,” he said. “I’m gonna owe you a beer.”

  “If we get out of this,” Sting corrected, “you’re going to owe me your life.”

  Jack wasn’t sure, but he thought that might have been a joke. For some reason, it made him hopeful.

  * * *

  “Okay,” Sam said. “I’ve got the generator ready to crash.”

  Next to her, O’Kane nodded. “I’ve almost—Okay, found it. There are stairs we can take that bypass the laboratory and take us right to the second generator room. It’ll be faster than using the transporter. It’s—” He paused, looking more closely. “Actually, it’s next to the launch bay for the gate-ships.” He looked over at her. “If necessary, that might be another way out?”

  Or more than a way out. Sam blinked, turned back to the console where she was holding fire on crashing the generator. “The navis temporis is in there?”

  “Among the other ships,” he said. “Yes.”

  “Right.” And she really shouldn’t be thinking about what a ‘time ship’ might be, except that, if it was what she hoped it was, it could change everything. It could undo this whole screwed-up future. It could save Janet. She cleared her throat, tried to focus on the task at hand. Time and place, Carter. “Thanks, James,” she said. “You’re right, we might not be able to get back to the dart and one of those gate-ships would be a good alternative.”

  “So long as Colonel O’Neill is with us; he’s the only one who could fly it.”

  She flung him a quick smile. “Better make sure we save his bacon, then.” She reached for the radio. “Ready?” O’Kane nodded and Sam toggled the radio on. “O’Neill, Carter. We’re ready on your order.”

  After a beat, his voice came back thin and full of static. “Copy that, Carter. We’re moving into position. Stand by.”

  She blew out a breath, keeping her fingers steady. The colonel and Sting would need to be close enough that they could use the thirty-second window, but not so close that they lost the element of surprise. Not that it would take the Wraith long to react, but every second counted.

  “How long will it take us to get down to the other generator?” she said.

  “Maybe ten minutes?”

  “Let’s make it five.”

  Her radio squawked. “Carter. Now.”

  She hit the controls, watched as Wraith script cascaded down the yellow screen—codes and processes she couldn’t read—and then began to fragment, to stutter. Part of the screen froze, then another. Then the whole thing stopped dead. It was well and truly crashed. “Blue screen of death.”

  O’Kane gave her a puzzled look. Then, behind her, the noise of the generator began a slow descent from its modest hum to a low, sinking whine. And then it stopped too.

  “Sir, shield is down.”

  A hiss of static. “I see it. We’re going in.”

  Then nothing more.

  “Okay, move it.” Sam vaulted over the console and ran for the door, O’Kane on her heels.

  The clock was literally ticking.

  Chapter 8

  Arbella — 2098

  It was difficult to measure the passage of time in a room with no windows, but to Teal’c it felt like hours since he’d been dragged bleeding from the cell in which he and Daniel had been held. This time, a guard had been left in the room with him, and Teal’c thought he recognized him as one of the civilian officers who had met SG-1 when they’d first arrived on Arbella. The man had remained silent, looking vaguely uncomfortable, since Yuma had left him here alone with Teal’c. If O’Neill had been here he might have goaded the young man, his offhand humor disguising a unique style of intimidation. Teal’c preferred to settle for silent staring.

  At any other time, he could easily have overpowered the slightly built officer, but the bullet wound to his side still bled, his symbiote taking more time to heal it than he would have liked. He’d remained conscious though, which counted in his favor, and from what he could tell the bullet itself was no longer in his body. Despite his weakened state, he would bide his time until the moment to escape presented itself.

  The door opened with a creak that echoed loudly in the empty room and the officer jumped as Agent Yuma and another guard—the burly one who had shot him—entered. Her eyes flicked to his side and the blood-soaked shirt, but her face betrayed no emotion. He watched her as she crossed the room, but refused to speak. Yuma picked up a metal chair from where it stood against the wall and placed it in the center of the room, facing Teal’c where he sat on the low bench. She sat down, crossed her legs and folded her hands in her lap. Teal’c had witnessed the same body language from certain Tau’ri politicians and those military personnel whom O’Neill liked to refer to as ‘desk-jockeys.’ If Yuma hadn’t just had him shot, her manner alone would have set Teal’c on edge.

  “You know, there really was no need for all of this,” she said, her tone entirely reasonable. “We only want your co-operation. Arbella bears you and Dr. Jackson no ill will.”

  Somehow Teal’c doubted that she spoke for the whole of the planet, or even the whole of Laketown. And if she did speak only for herself, it was clear she did not speak true; ill will flowed from this woman in waves. “Where is Daniel Jackson?” was all he said.

  “Your friend is safe for now,” she replied, and the meaning of those last two words was not lost on him. “All we want is information from you.”

  “I have no information to give.”

  Yuma smiled. “I appreciate there is an established pattern to these things, Teal’c—believe me, I’m no stranger to quelling dissent amongst those who seek to challenge the established order on Arbella—but I’d hoped that we could dispense with it on this occasion. You must know how desperate your situation is.” She sat forward, pressing her palms together as if to reinforce her point. “You have no allies here.” Teal’c only stared ahead, refusing to speak. He knew that there were those among the CMF, like Lieutenant Jefferson, who would stand behind SG-1 if the call to action was made. He also knew that it could cost them their lives, given the harsh price to pay for sedition. He would not be the one to hand them that death sentence.

  Nevertheless, Yuma apparently took his silence as answer enough. Her eyes narrowed an
d she tilted her head. “Ah, I see. You believe you do have allies. Or one at least. Give me their names and I’ll arrange safe passage for you and Jackson back through the Stargate.”

  “I have no information to give,” repeated Teal’c.

  A gesture from Yuma and the larger guard strode forward. Seconds later, Teal’c was doubled over, a well-aimed punch to his wound sending sparks of pain throughout his body. “Teal’c, you must understand, I already have my suspicions about those who plot against our government. You would only be providing us with intel we already have.”

  “Then why, I wonder, do you seem so determined to extract it from me?” he said, gritting his teeth through the pain. His comment, it seemed, did not please her, and at her command, another blow was inflicted, this time to Teal’c’s jaw. In the corner, he saw the younger man, whose name he now remembered as Hayden, flinch.

  “What are your plans and who are you working with on Arbella?”

  Teal’c spat blood on the floor and said, “Where is Lana Jones?” For the first time, he saw Yuma’s composed exterior flicker. Hayden flashed her a glance that spoke volumes. The last he’d seen of the president’s wife, she was being led down a corridor, supported by two guards. Teal’c had seen Yuma exchange what looked like heated words with Hayden, which left the young officer visibly perturbed. Teal’c was sure that not all was as it seemed.

  “Lana Jones is none of your concern.”

  “I merely wish to know why we are being held here when we succeeded in the mission President Jones set us.”

  Yuma stared at him for a long moment, and then stood, brushing imaginary lint from her pressed slacks. “I see that you aren’t in a frame of mind to talk to me right now. That will change.” Teal’c was wondering if it was worth pointing out that, as First Prime to Apophis, he had been trained to withstand more than a few well-placed punches, when she added, “We’ll see if Dr. Jackson is perhaps more open to persuasion.”