07 - Survival of the Fittest

by Sabine C. Bauer - (ebook by Undead)

  It wouldn’t be long now. The tip was already sharp, and she’d managed to hone an inch or so to an edge. She’d come to love the rhythmic swishing of stone over metal. The sound promised escape and a return home, and it calmed her. It also was a kind of meditation. While she whetted the stake, her mind rehearsed the plan for the hundredth time; the small, vital details of where to position herself, when to strike, where to place the dagger. There would be no second chance. If she hesitated for even a fraction of a second, gave him the slightest opening, he would crush her. The images were perfectly clear now, and she could almost feel the gentle pop of the point piercing skin. Like bursting a zit.

  The notion made her laugh, quietly, briefly, snapping her out of her reverie. Good. She needed to stay focused, and never mind that her head was pounding. Her attention fixed on the boulder that blocked the entrance. Had it moved? No. He wasn’t back yet, though he would be soon. He always came back several times during the day, to make sure she hadn’t found a way to free herself. When he’d first left her here, she’d tried to shift the boulder. Tried for hours, straining and swearing and angrily refusing to admit that it was hopeless. Physically he was so much beyond her it defied description. But she still could outthink him. He’d shift the boulder for her, unblock the narrow gap in the tree, and then—

  She drew a hissing breath, froze. There! There it was again. A soft squelch of boots on wet ground; the kind of noise you’d associate with a maiden aunt dispensing sloppy kisses. Kissy-kissy, louder now. Bigger. Because it wasn’t an aunt, it was an uncle. She giggled, instantly recognized the hysteria and wrestled it down. No time for that. The steady, insistent voice that had kept her sane until now demanded action. This was it. If she spent another day in this hole, she’d lose it.

  Suddenly her palms were slick with sweat. Railing under her breath at the vagaries of physiology, she ripped a strip of fabric from her shirt and wrapped it around the stake to give her a secure grip. Then, inch by inch, so as not to make the slightest sound, she edged off the pallet and over to the entrance. Back pressed into the digestive slime that coated the tree’s interior, she stood and waited, half convinced that he would hear the hammering of her heart. She barely heard anything beside it. But then she did hear something else. The scrape of stone on wood.

  He was back.

  She’d been watching carefully whenever he’d opened the entrance. He always rolled the boulder from left to right. Perhaps it was easier that way, perhaps he’d done it once and, finding that it worked, did it the same way each time after that without giving it any thought. It didn’t matter. The only thing that mattered was the fact that he rolled it left to right now. Once the gap was clear, he’d pause, not entirely immune to the exertion, then he’d push himself off the boulder and duck and turn to enter. At that moment, and at that moment only, his jugular would be exposed.

  The scraping was loud now; scraping and harsh, labored breath. A thin slice of light cut into the gloom inside the tree, broadening slowly, winking in and out as he moved. Another push, another, and another. Then stillness, no more winking and scraping, only the unbroken strip of light and his gasps.

  It brought the familiar urge to fling herself past him and flee. She’d tried that, too. He’d moved faster than she ever could have imagined, caught her, and carried her back inside. After that he’d always made sure that his legs partly blocked the gap, as they did now. But he’d have to turn.

  Wait. Not yet. Wait!

  It was a second. Only a second, two perhaps, but it seemed to grow out of all proportion, stretch into infinity. Her fingers cramped around the grip of the stake.

  Relax. Relax your arm. Relax your fingers.

  If the muscles got too tense she would have neither the speed nor the accuracy she needed. The bacterial goop that clung to the bark was beginning to seep through her shirt, sticky and moist on her skin. She concentrated on the discomfort, allowed it to distract her just enough to breathe again. Very, very softly.

  And then he turned and ducked into the opening.

  Her arm flew up, fist tight around the stake, just as she’d rehearsed it time and time again in her mind. He saw the movement from the corner of his eye. His head snapped around, but he was helpless at that moment, broad shoulders wedged inside the gap, arms still caught outside.

  “Dr. Fraiser! No!”

  Perhaps it was the sound of her name, perhaps the look in his eyes. It dredged up words of a promise she’d made; more than a promise, a command: First, do no harm. Fierce and compelling and almost enough to stop her. Almost. Her arm kept moving, needing to find its target, but its thrust changed, thrown off course by four words. Instead of slicing the vein in his neck, the stake plunged into the hollow above his clavicle, destroying a nexus of nerves and disabling the right side of his upper body. He bellowed in pain, reeled back, and crumpled against the boulder.

  Now, as she watched his large hand clutching the wound, she knew she’d done the right thing. Hadn’t she? He was looking for the weapon. Wasn’t he? Looking to pull it out and turn it against her. She had to hold on to it. And she did. There was blood dripping from it, rich and dark, like the blood that trickled from between his fingers.

  First, do no harm. Take a sterile bandage and apply pressure to staunch the bleeding. Probe for tissue and nerve damage and for any contamination introduced into the wound canal. Administer—No. Not for this patient.

  He wouldn’t need antibiotics. Infection wasn’t an issue. But how did she know that?

  Her gaze slid from those twitching, bloodied fingers up to his face, his eyes again. Deep brown—black almost—and patient and concerned. And still not angry. At that instant the veil tore, and she moaned, dropped the stake. It landed with a muted thud.

  “Teal’c,” Janet Fraiser whispered, choking on the horror of what she’d done. What she’d almost done. “Teal’c…”

  His eyes slid shut, severing the tenuous link she’d found, and the voice floated back, steady and calm and convincing. So convincing.

  His symbiote will heal him, and he will come after you. Kill him. Kill him now.

  Stare fixed on him she crouched, moving as through treacle, groped through the mud until her fingers struck metal, curled around the stake, raised it. Then she stepped through the gap and out into freedom, half expecting his legs to shoot up and trip her. But he never stirred, either having resigned himself or unconscious. An insect landed on his face, flexing iridescent wings, buzzed and traipsed around and flew off again. To spread the news and bring others to the feast?

  Kill him, the voice murmured.

  “He’s already dead,” she replied through a shiver of anxiety. What if the voice noticed she was lying?

  It didn’t. It simply fell silent, quietly content.

  This puzzled her. She’d assumed the voice had all the answers. But she wasn’t going to quibble with it. Not now. Not while she still… Not while it still was fooled. She took a step back, and another, and stopped, hands shaking, body shaking. Then, before the need to obey became overwhelming, she spun around and headed into the jungle at a dead run.

  “Your lunch, sir.” As usual, Delores objected to having been dispatched to the deli—or maybe she was vegetarian and had ethical reservations against Pastrami sandwiches. Two French manicured fingernails clamped the top of the paper bag, swung it over the desk, let go. Like a logging crane. “Anything else 1 can get you, sir?”

  “Write out an expense claim form for this and bring it in for me to sign. I assume you’ll want your money back.” Frank Simmons didn’t have to look up to know that her pretty, inane face was twitching with annoyance right now. “You did get a receipt, didn’t you?”

  By ways of an answer, she flounced out, letting the door slam behind her. Simmons supposed he should sack her on the strength of the attitude alone. Truth was, though, she had a fairly high entertainment value. That aside, Delores was blessed with the intellectual brilliance of a Scheffleria, which wasn’t actually a bad thing. Intelli
gence bred curiosity—not a trait to be encouraged in the person who handled his diary. Somebody with two brain cells to rub together might have asked questions about his recent extended absences or about the fact that he’d shown up for a whirlwind tour his office and would vanish again tonight without leaving a forwarding address. She’d figure he had a lover, if she figured anything at all. Like most stupid people, she was wholly unimaginative. Again, a bonus. Unimaginative people were impervious to bullying. As she’d proved conclusively on at least one occasion. Nobody else would have possessed the nerve to keep Jack O’Neill from entering the office for a full two hours.

  Frank Simmons pried apart the folded top of the bag and chuckled. It’d been priceless. Little Jack, all dolled up in a neatly pressed dress uniform, cap balanced on his knees—hell, he’d even bothered to do something about that hair of his—and trying to be on his best behavior. Which admittedly didn’t amount to much, but by the time he’d lost it and stormed Simmons’ office, you could tell it was virtually causing him physical pain. And then he’d crashed head first into a brick wall and slunk away again, tail between his legs. Priceless.

  Of course, afterwards his behavior had deteriorated dramatically. He’d gone ahead and solved the riddle of where Major Carter was held and why. As a matter of fact, he’d damn near caught Conrad before Simmons could get to him. The amusement factor of that hadn’t been anywhere near as high, so, all things, considered, it probably was best if O’Neill dropped out of the picture permanently.

  Simmons took a bite from his sandwich, chewed contentedly—the pickle was homemade—and wished the good colonel hadn’t been wearing a vest that day. Then again, odds were that the joint Marine/Air Force exercise, beneficial in oh so many ways, had taken care of this problem, too. In other words, the kinks had worked themselves out on their own, thank you very much. Too bad that O’Neill refused to be more flexible. For the price of a little moral malleability somebody like him could have had a stellar career in the NID.

  Halfway through the second bite, the door flew open, and Delores leveled a smug smile at him. “You’ve got a visitor.”

  “I’m busy,” Simmons managed around a mouthful of Pastrami and rye.

  “It’s Lieutenant General Crowley.”

  Crap! Crowley knew better than to just pop in for a chat. Whatever reason he had for coming to the office, it wasn’t to enquire after Colonel Simmons’ health. More likely the reason would render the Pastrami indigestible. So much for kinks working themselves out.

  Simmons finally swallowed, sank the sandwich bag in a desk drawer, and said, “Show him in.”

  Her face registered disappointment, as though she’d hoped for open signs of irritation, and she stepped back to clear the way for Crowley—who gusted in like a tropical storm, only drier. Delores closed the door behind him.

  “General. What can I do for you?” asked Simmons, certain that he didn’t want to know.

  Complexion florid under a nearly white crew cut, Crowley flung himself into a chair. It groaned. At five foot eleven, the general weighed about a hundred and ninety pounds, all of it muscle. “Where the hell have you been?” he hissed.

  Okay. Moderate misconception right there. Simmons straightened up, shot his cuffs. “With respect, sir, that’s none of your business. So. What can I do for you?”

  Needless to say, the reply wasn’t designed to calm Crowley down, but at least he accepted it. Most of the stuff the NID did was classified up the wazoo. In fact, Simmons had been at the safe house, trying to cajole a digest of Jaffa training methods out of Conrad, but he had no intention—or obligation—to reveal that. Not even the President was cleared to know about the Goa’uld.

  “You assured me that he wouldn’t be a problem!” Crowley snapped.

  “That who wouldn’t be a problem?” From the desk drawer wafted the scent of Pastrami, and Simmons was still feeling hungry.

  “O’Neill! You said Hammond was bound to bench him and that he’d retire rather than fly a desk.” The general gave a dyspeptic snort. “Well, guess what? Your guy’s surprisingly active for a retiree. He’s snooping around on ’335.”

  “He’s what?” All of a sudden, Simmons lost his appetite.

  “You heard me. He’s got that nerdy civilian lapdog of his with him.”

  “Dr. Jackson? How do you know?”

  “Major Warren came back. He told me. I practically had to beat the report out of him. You’d think he’s Air Force, the way he—”

  “How did they get there?”

  “It’s a safe bet that they didn’t hike,” snarled Crowley, peeved at being cut off. “So I’m assuming Hammond sent them.”

  It was an equally safe bet that someone, somewhere along the line, had perpetrated a cataclysmic foul-up. Otherwise Hammond would never have deployed a man whose fitness was questionable. For all his good ole country boy demeanor, the general was one hell of a smooth operator and way too shrewd to lay himself open like that.

  “Any particular reason why he’d do that?” Simmons asked, keeping his voice as calm as he could.

  Predictably, it let some of the air out of Crowley’s bluster. Squirming, he muttered, “There was an unforeseen complication. The doctor wasn’t on her own. Carter and the Jaffa were with her. Our men didn’t know what else to do, so they delivered all three of them.”

  “They did what?” Simmons all but screamed. Never mind loss of appetite; he felt distinctly bilious.

  “What’s the big deal? You authorized the doctor as part of your agreement with that alien. So they lost two people more than expected. Tough.”

  “General, did you actually read O’Neill’s file?”

  “No. Why should—”

  “Because ten years or so ago he did a four-month stint as POW in Iraq and came back a few cards short of a full deck. Eventually he recovered, though some people would argue with that. What a herd of shrinks didn’t manage to shake loose, despite their best efforts, was an obsession with never leaving any of his team behind. When you kidnapped Carter and the Jaffa, O’Neill was bound to go after them. And Hammond, with his sentimental fetish for honor and self-sacrifice, probably shoved him through the gate. I guarantee you, between them they’re not gonna leave a stone unturned.”

  “Oh, now it’s my fault, is it?” Crowley asked testily. “May I remind you that it would have been your guys who gave the order?”

  “I didn’t say it was your fault,” murmured Simmons, hating to be on the defensive and wishing, for the hundredth time, that he could be out there and run the show himself. The enforced lack of communication was a serious weakness. Unfortunately, his face was too well known around the SGC, and even in a Marine uniform he’d never have made it through the Stargate unnoticed.

  “So what do you suggest we do? Any ideas?” snapped Crowley.

  “You got somebody who can deliver a message?”

  “I’ve got another unit on standby. They’re to gate out whenever I give the word.”

  “Good.” Simmons experienced a wary tug of relief and tapped a pen on his desk blotter. “O’Neill and Jackson can’t stay on ’335. We can’t afford witnesses. Nor can we afford my dear friend, Lady Nirrti, vacuuming Major Carter’s head, which she’s perfectly capable of doing.” Dropping the pen, he leaned back in his chair. “I’m afraid SG-1 will have to go missing in action.”

  “That’s your solution? Make them go away?” Crowley’s already livid face reddened alarmingly. “And you think Hammond’s gonna sit still for that? He’s investigating me, for God’s sake!”

  “Don’t worry about Hammond. I’ll take care of him.”

  “He’s gonna go MIA, too? Subtle, Colonel. Real subtle.”

  “Oh no. I’ll just keep him busy.” Simmons smiled. “Now, by the beginning of next week you should have ten new Jaffa, bringing the total up to twenty-one. Once they arrive, we ought to give them a road test, see how efficient they are.”

  Somehow he didn’t think he was going to apprise Nirrti of this idea.
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br />   CHAPTER EIGHT

  Reversal: Process whereby a derived character state changes back to the ancestral state through mutation or selection.

  M3D 335’s primary was doing a pretty convincing impression of his ribcage, though Jack O’Neill felt certain that the phenomena were unrelated. Turning green and purple, the bloated peril—the planet, that was—had sagged to half-mast and leered over the horizon. Whoever was responsible for the design sure knew how to enhance the warm fuzzy feeling the rest of this place evoked.

  The blighted eggplant backlit a handful of huts and the ten-strong unit of Marines who had arrived half an hour ago, yipping in the rarified atmosphere. They were still being briefed by a pair of sergeants, and something about these two guys irked Jack. They fit in like transvestites at a Revivalist meeting.

  The crate that currently served as his bench was getting uncomfortable. Shoulders resting against the wall behind him, he slid forward a little, stretched his legs, and yawned to reinforce the large, lazy cat look.

  Daniel, who’d been ogling one of Mr. Poletti’s braves across the square, turned around to observe Jack’s shufflings and asked, “Am I boring you?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Oh good. If it gets to the point, let me know and I’ll start tap-dancing.”

  “In a feather boa?”

  Jack didn’t hear the reply. Out on the square new and exciting things were happening. The men had been dismissed, but one of them now addressed the two sergeants. As Newbie’s hand dipped into a pocket, Sergeant A’s fingers locked around his wrist, stopping him from taking out whatever it was he meant to deliver. The sergeant’s hand let go and slipped to the man’s shoulder for a pat. Meanwhile, Sergeant B kept smiling and chatting. All very low-key and expertly done, and if Jack hadn’t been watching out for this type of thing he’d have missed it.