07 - Survival of the Fittest

by Sabine C. Bauer - (ebook by Undead)

  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 blood-smeared 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, car
eful 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 palm-piece 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.