Mud-gloved fingers scrabbling for hold on the mangrove roots, she resurfaced coughing up a throatful of gunk. It was the third time since the hogs had chased her in here that she’d lost her grasp and gone under. There couldn’t be a fourth. If they were still stalking her—well, too bad. She had to get out, get warm again, go back. She owed it to the kid. His screams had led her back the to ruins and the Stargate, and where the gate was, there had to be a DHD. Mostly. She pushed away insistent images of a prison world with no DHD and a charming old lady who could have taught Slobodan Milosevic a thing or two about mass murder. Hadante had been nearly as cozy as this, whatever it was called.
Hand over hand, arms and shoulders cramping with exhaustion, Sam hauled herself toward the edge of the bog. The mire sucked at her waist, her hips, her legs, unwilling to let go and give up its prize. Finally she crawled onto dry land—dry being relative. Not a trace of the hell hogs now, only the prints of countless trotters that had churned the ground. The devils had been dancing… She raised her head, letting the torrential rain rinse her face and clear her mind.
Getting to her feet took five fun-packed minutes, but eventually she was hobbling through the fog, propped on Macdonald’s staff weapon, every step pumping liquid pain from her leg into the rest of her body. Halfway to the ruins the rain stopped and the sun came out again, stabbing through the canopy and infusing the mist with blinding radiance. It lit up a weather-blackened statue, overgrown with vines and purple orchids, that slouched between the trees. The face was long and patrician, almond-eyed, and the full mouth smiled. Sam didn’t know or care at what. Daniel, were he here, might spin his own theories, doubtlessly bang on target, but as far as she was concerned the statue was a signpost. The outer perimeter of the ruins and the place where the kid had died lay less than two hundred meters east of here.
Still no hogs. The only sounds were the slow patter of drips on leaves, the tentative hoots of animals emerging from shelter after the rain, and her own breaths. She’d cut the kid down, she decided suddenly. Cut him down, bury him, get his dog tags, so that—
The twig snapped with the noise of a gun going off. It had come from behind and to her left, and if she’d had an ounce of agility left, she’d have dropped flat. Under the circumstances, her best option was to freeze in the shadows by the statue and inch around as quietly as she could until she had a fix on whoever or whatever was out there.
A few minutes later she knew that she was dealing with whoever. Two whoevers, to be precise. She’d smelled them. The Marine Jaffa obviously had a locker room somewhere around here; the bastards had the nerve to reek more or less clean. Soap, deodorant, mouthwash. Not too much, just enough to stand out from the pervasive backdrop of jungle rot and make her ache for a shower. On the upside, they didn’t have a snowflake’s chance in hell of sniffing her; she’d long lost the last whiff of civilization, thanks to a potent mix of fermenting swamp, stale sweat, and the fetid stench from her leg wound.
They were good. The breaking twig had been a glitch, perpetrated by Whoever Number One who’d now changed course and would pass her position somewhere to the right. Whoever Number Two was beyond good. He was spooky. You didn’t hear him and you didn’t see him—almost. He slipped through the forest as smoothly and silently as a wisp of fog, and if it hadn’t been for Crest or Colgate, he’d have been on top of her before she knew what was happening. Sam could have admired his technique for hours. Unfortunately, after turning a wide circle to check his tail, the Phantom Menace came wafting straight at her and running was out of the question.
The staff weapon felt reassuringly heavy in her hand. She could take him out now, without his even noticing that she was there. Tactically it’d be wrong, though; Number One would hear the blast and ride to the rescue, and he’d be primed and ready to fight. She might end up killing them both. A waste, because she needed somebody to explain what the hell was going on in this place—and Number Two had just been volunteered for the job. She’d disable him and, if necessary, kill Number One.
Ahead, a dark shape glided in and out between patches of mist; the first time she’d actually had a visual on him for longer than a split-second. Oh yeah, Number Two was real alright, not the product of a fever dream. Fingers closing around the staff weapon in a combat grip, she eased further behind the statue. A human shadow filtered from the mist and flitted across sprawling ferns, and she heard his footfalls now, light and irregular, mimicking the random sounds a jungle creature might make.
Her body tensed in preparation for the attack. It was simple, all about angles and leverage; Teal’c had shown her the basics. The movement patterns were stored in her mind, an indelible blueprint. Ignoring the bolt of pain that shot up her leg as she stepped out for the turn, Sam whipped the weapon into a smooth loop to gather speed and momentum. Driven by the solid bud of metal at its tip, the staff swung out, sheared into an arc, sliced through a shout, hit its target. The force of the impact rattled through her arms, but she did as Teal’c had taught her, spun with the motion to face her prey, ready for attack, and… bit back a cry.
The blow, too fast—too goddamn fast!—for him even to bring up his arms and protect himself, had struck the side of his head. He looked at her, impossible and uncomprehending, then his eyes rolled back and he collapsed.
“No.” Weak and pleading, the word rose on a tremor that racked her entire body, chilling her inside out. Her second homicide in as many days. And this one, this one—
A ferocious tackle ripped her legs out from under her. Tumbling into a white-hot sea of agony, she passed out before she even struck the ground.
CHAPTER TEN
Maternal Effect: Condition where the subject’s visible characteristics are not determined by its own genotype but by that of the mother.
Nirrti regretted bringing the woman in so soon. Watching her bumble through the forest, hurting and muttering defiance, had been droll. But there were other considerations now; more important considerations. The human, Simmons, was playing his own game; one Nirrti was not privy to. Whatever his plans were, it seemed only wise to thwart them—without overtly appearing to do so. Who better to achieve this than the goddess of deceit and destruction? If she went about it intelligently, drollery could be derived from this, too. A great deal of drollery, she contemplated with a smile. Shame only that the latest installment of Simmons’ gifts had arrived too unexpectedly for her to unleash the beasts. The fulfillment of that unspoken promise would have to wait a while, but anticipation was a thrill in itself.
Then her gaze fell on Master Sergeant Charles Macdonald, and her smile died. He cowered in a corner, drooling at her like a whipped dog. The raw flesh on his forehead where she had personally removed the skin and with it the tattoo—he was unworthy of wearing her sign—undoubtedly smarted less than her displeasure. On the table beside her couch stood a plate of chilled fruit; sliced mango, lychees, papaya, glistening with juice. A sweep of her arm sent the plate flying. It shattered on the floor, and her dog flinched at the noise. The stone tiles were spattered with soft, sticky wedges of fruit.
“Clean it up!” she snapped. “I do not want any more.”
“Yes, mistress,” whined the dog and came scuttling from his corner on all fours, not daring to raise his eyes now. At her feet he froze. “Mistress, please! I beg your forgiveness.”
“No. And do not ask me again. Else I shall do what I ought to have done.” Once more she felt like smiling. “Do you know what I ought to have done, slave?”
“No, mistress.”
He did not dare to move when she reached out, briefly caressed the flaps of his pouch, inserted her hand. The symbiote squirmed, warm between her fingers. She tightened her grip, clutched it. Macdonald gasped, as much a reaction to his own discomfort as to that of the symbiote’s.
Leaning forward, she murmured into his ear. “Shall I tell you what would happen if I crushed it?”
“Mistress, please,” the man whimpered.
And why not? It did not matte
r. She squeezed harder, felt the symbiote’s flapping panic, heard the man’s groan. Harder still until she heard a soft crunch. “Its blood is bright blue and beautiful,” she whispered. “It also is deadly to you, slave. The blood will mingle with yours, killing you slowly and very, very painfully.”
Twitching and bawling as the poison took effect, he sagged into a heap, and she let go. A flimsy sheet of silk from the couch served as a towel to clean her hand. Finished with it—and him—she dropped it to the floor and rose. Her new First Prime abandoned his position by the door, gliding forward and sneering at the dying slave. Not as handsome as his predecessor, but perhaps smart enough to learn from poor example.
He lowered his head. “What is your desire, Lady Nirrti?”
“Take two others and accompany me.” She brushed past him and through the door, his reply sliding from her back. It was predictable, anyhow.
“As you wish. Lady Nirrti.”
Hurrying into the staircase, she could hear them fall in behind her, swift and silent, as they should be. Wide loops of stairs spiraled down into shadow and to the lower levels. Cool marble under her feet, she slipped past derelict floors, past the level that now housed over sixty new Jaffa, past the laboratory, and finally to the bottom, where the stairwell opened out toward the vault. The flickering distortion across the doorway indicated an exit secured by a force shield. From the inside it would seem opaque, allowing her to observe the new arrival without being seen herself.
Already small of stature, the Tauri healer was dwarfed by the dimensions of the room. The wet trail of footprints she had left reminded Nirrti of the puny, busy perambulations of an insect—an ant perhaps, separated from the hive and frantically searching for the other ants. Or at least a way out.
Now that the vibrations no longer warped the healer’s mind, the woman was reacting normally again. The ant trail ran—pat-pat-pat—straight from the large puddle at the center of the room to the force shield where, no doubt, she had received a shock. For some reason they all tried at least once, believing themselves immune to physics. Then—pat-pat-pat—the trail doubled back on itself to where she had arrived. The rings were gone of course. At this moment—pat-pat-pat—she was traipsing along a wall, fingertips examining coarse stone, sooty from the torches that lit the room. Obviously she was hoping to find the controls for the ring transporter. Enterprising, if overly optimistic. The transporters inside the fortress could only be operated from a ribbon device.
Much like the force shield.
Nirrti touched a gem on her device, and a silent command neutralized photons and realigned the charges of the air molecules inside the doorway, until the air became just that—air—and lost its tense shimmer. The prisoner looked up, alerted by that indefinable sense of interrupted solitude all trapped animals seemed to possess. Her hair hung in limp red strands—amazingly it had changed color, chameleon-like, since Nirrti had last seen her on Earth—and she was soaked and pale and filthy, but there was no fear in her dark eyes. In fact, there was something almost akin to mockery. Mockery and contempt and collected stillness.
“I had a hunch it’d be you,” she said. “The transporter control in the pool was a tad obvious.”
Ah yes. The palm print. Originally designed for fever-ridden Hankan adolescents who, like the good little apes they were, could never resist placing their paws inside the relief to see if it fit. “Why modify a thing that serves its purpose?” Nirrti replied pleasantly. “It did for you, did it not? Without it you might have drowned.”
The healer’s fist scrubbed across her forehead, betraying her thoughts. “What did you do to me? Drugs? Nish’ta?”
“Nothing so crude. Think!” Her peal of laughter made the woman flinch, and Nirrti relished it. “When would I have administered a drug?” As she walked into the room, closing the distance between them, laughter was supplanted by just the correct amount of threat in her tone. “Do not underestimate me. I am not your prisoner now, and you do not have a weapon.”
A flicker of defiance and raw hatred danced through the healer’s eyes. “So that’s what this is about? Revenge? Are you going to kill me or just implant me with a Goa’uld?”
“I told you not to underestimate me! Revenge? Do you really believe you can judge me by the paltry standards of the Tauri? Of course, should the chance for revenge present itself…” Nirrti smiled. “For now you shall make yourself useful. You are amply qualified, and you owe me a service.”
The healer stiffened, brow furrowing in mulish refusal. A minute wave of their mistress’ hand made the three Jaffa guards step from the shadows by the doorway. For a moment, the woman’s eyes widened, and in that tiny frame of time puzzlement darkened to recognition and abhorrence.
Excellent.
Turning to share the healer’s view, Nirrti herself found nothing abhorrent in her creations. “She will come with us,” she said to her new First Prime and strode past him toward the doorway.
Lingering to watch was unnecessary. They would surround the prisoner, two either side, one at her back and, if called for, they would beat her into obedience. One way or the other, the woman would follow.
Nirrti scaled the stairs to the level above and headed down the hallway to the laboratory. The door that sealed the entrance opened noiselessly. Cold air hissed into the corridor, coating gilded walls and floors with moisture. Used to the brutal drop in temperature, she ignored it. Besides, she was able to adjust the host’s body heat and barely noticed any discomfort. The healer, drenched from her bath in the pool and accustomed to the warmth of the jungle would suffer, of course. So much the better.
Overhead lights, activated by motion sensors, shed a pure white gleam on a facility that clashed with the opulence of the hallway and the rest of the palace. This was the domain of science, utilitarian and sterile by necessity, though to Nirrti it had a beauty of its own. Less sensual perhaps, but ultimately more enduring. The doors slid shut behind her Jaffa and their charge, and over their footfalls she could hear the woman’s gasp. She knew what had provoked it.
The layout of the laboratory was that of a giant wheel. Its hub was occupied by a large surgical table, banks of equipment, and the climate-controlled vats that harbored swirling masses of larvae. The spokes radiating from the hub were dedicated to Macdonald, her new First Prime, and nine other warriors and held parallel rows of clear cylinders, each about seven feet high, three feet in diameter and filled with liquid. From some of the gestation tubes her creatures were staring at her, dawning recognition in their gaze. These would be mature soon, and they sensed the approach of their birth and prim’ta. The Macdonalds looked sullen, as though they realized that their prototype had been tried and found wanting.
She addressed the Jaffa escort. “You may go.”
“Yes, Lady Nirrti,” her First Prime responded.
All three of them bowed, identical movements; identical smiles on identical faces. Three sets of steps of the same length, three bodies swaying with the same little swagger, they left the laboratory.
“Clones,” the healer whispered, her face deathly pale. She was hugging herself, seeking protection from the cold or the shock or both. “Why?”
Partly because she knew it would heighten her prisoner’s discomfort, Nirrti laughed again. “How else would I obtain a sufficient number of subjects? Diversity is essential for maintaining a healthy stock.”
“Sufficient subjects for what?”
“That is none of your concern. Your only concern is to assist me in creating more.”
“No!”
“As you wish.”
Nirrti’s fingers found the contact on the ribbon device, activated it. The vibrations resonated through the room at a frequency far below human hearing. They once more rendered the healer’s mind suggestible, open to Nirrti’s invasion, the effect almost as pleasurable as taking a host. Pain and terror suffused the woman’s eyes as she fought vainly to retain control of her will.
These are deficient. You may begin by destroy
ing them, Nirrti thought at her, pointing at the endless rows of Macdonalds. It is a task suited to you. As I recall you delight in destroying the work of others.
“It’s an acquired taste. Have another.” Frank Simmons poured a second round of oak-aged Macallan at seventy bucks a bottle and returned to the fireplace to put the glasses on a low table. Playing butler. Why the hell not? “I’d suggest you drink it slowly this time.”
Conrad, ensconced in one of the leather armchairs, picked up the tumbler and tossed back its contents. Then he studied the reflection of the fire in his glass. “My host is partial to wine—a type you refer to as Californian Shiraz—but he detests spirits. An instance of overindulgence in his youth, I believe. As for myself, ethanol has no effect on me. I can metabolize it into carbohydrates faster than you can pour. So you may as well abandon your attempt to intoxicate me.”
“That wasn’t the idea.” Of course it had been precisely the idea of this companionable little get-together in the library of the safe house, but Simmons wasn’t fool enough to admit it. He eased himself into his chair and took a sip of whiskey, savoring it. “I was trying to invoke a spirit of cooperation rather than opposition. We can both profit from working together. Partners, if you will.”
“Is it customary among the Tauri to control their partners by leashing explosive devices around their necks?”
“Touche. On the other hand, it also isn’t customary among us to control our partners by taking them as hosts, if you catch my drift.”
“I have a host, Simmons. Admittedly, I would not have chosen him. As you would say, he is not my type. But neither are you.” A sardonic eyebrow flicked up. Conrad actually had a sense of humor. “There is no sufficient enticement to switch hosts, so you are perfectly safe.”
“Good to know.” Simmons snorted. “What is your type?”
“Given the choice, I would have taken Conrad’s assistant.”
07 - Survival of the Fittest Page 15
