07 - Survival of the Fittest

by Sabine C. Bauer - (ebook by Undead)

  “A woman? I never considered—”

  “Surely you are aware that the Goa’uld essentially are hermaphrodites. The gender of the host is irrelevant and purely a matter of personal preference.”

  In fact, Simmons’ interest in the bedroom habits of a race of spiky reptiles was strictly limited. He’d read about it in the SGC reports and filed it away. And Conrad, under that personable mask he wore right now, was trying to play him. In a minute the bastard would claim he’d surrendered vital information and demand a cookie. Well, he could have a carrot. It was healthier all round.

  “Prove to me that I can trust you, and the necklace goes away,” Simmons offered over another sip of whiskey.

  Conrad’s hands rose in a mix of frustration and defensiveness. Sometimes the way he adopted human mannerisms was eerie. “I have already helped you by gaining Lady Nirrti’s assistance. Is that not enough?”

  “Nowhere near enough, my friend! You put me in touch with Nirrti because there was something in it for her, and you hoped the deal would get you on her good side. I’m looking for a slightly more disinterested show of faith.”

  “And how do I know that I can trust you?”

  “I saved your life.”

  “Because I could be of profit to you.”

  Simmons laughed. “Do you have any idea how much more profitable you would be dissected and sold to the highest bidder? All the scientific benefit without the risks.”

  For once it gave Conrad pause. The silence was filled with the tap of rain against tall windows and the crackle of fire in the hearth. The Victorian idyll seemed custom-made to lend credibility to this charade of two old pals having an after-dinner chat. The only thing missing were the cigars. Simmons didn’t smoke. Somewhere in the house a phone rang, muted and out of place. It jarred Conrad from his thoughts, remarkably without flashing eyes or vocal hi-jinks or any other theatrics.

  “Very well,” he said. “What do you wish to know?”

  “What I’ve been wanting to know all last week. Jaffa training.”

  Conrad sighed, like a preschool teacher faced with a particularly imbecilic batch of toddlers. “And what I have been telling you all last week is true. I do not know. I am Goa’uld, not Jaffa. How the Jaffa train their warriors is of no concern to us as long as these warriors are skilled enough to do our bidding. One thing I can tell you, however. Your men must be trained,”

  “Oh really?” snapped Simmons. “Wake me when you’re through dispensing platitudes!”

  “Listen to me, Tauri!” And now Conrad rolled out the whole sound and light show. “I assume Nirrti did not tell you this, because she seeks her own advantage—taking what you offer without surrendering anything in return. You never wasted a thought on the skills necessary for your men to wield the powers they are given. And you call the Goa’uld arrogant? We possess the entire knowledge of our race from birth. Learning is not a requirement for us. For you it is a matter of survival, as it is for the Jaffa. But, unlike you, the Jaffa are humble enough to know that they have to learn.

  “Why do you think a Jaffa warrior begins his education even before he receives his prim’ta? It takes years to master kelno’reem and to school the senses for the presence of the symbiote. Unless your men receive proper training, they will weaken. Eventually they will die. Not straightaway, but they will die.”

  Simmons found that his fingers had clenched around the tumbler during this speech. If this was true… His hand shook, and he knocked back the whiskey in one gulp and deposited the glass on the table lest he broke it. “The tame Jaffa they keep at the SGC never mentioned any of this,” he snarled at last.

  “Why would he? Jaffa consider the relationship with their symbiote a private matter. Besides, he is a shol’va. Perhaps he had an ulterior motive for not mentioning it.”

  “So what do you suggest I do?”

  “Is it not obvious?” Conrad’s left eyebrow leaped up again, this time in disbelief. “Use the shol’va. Order him to train them.”

  Good thinking. Except, this obvious solution had an equally obvious hitch the Goa’uld wasn’t aware of. Annoyingly, the hitch was of Simmons’ own making. Which meant that Simmons would have to find a way around it.

  His ruminations were interrupted by a knock on the door.

  “Come.”

  An agent entered, brandishing a phone handset. He cast a quick, uneasy glance at Conrad before redirecting his attention to Simmons. “Call for you, sir.”

  “Dammit! I—”

  “Sorry, sir. They said it was urgent.”

  Simmons snatched the phone. “What?”

  The voice at the other end sounded sheepish. “It’s General Hammond, sir. We, uh… we lost him.”

  The news was enough to make him jump to his feet and start pacing. “You did what?”

  “He got picked up by a cab outside Boiling AFB. We’re thinking it may have been arranged. We’re also pretty sure the guy driving was Maybourne.”

  Maybourne. They should have executed him while they’d had the chance. Some days Simmons could swear the son of a bitch was going out of his way to make his successor’s life hell. This was one of those days. “When did this happen?” he barked, staring through a rain-streaked window.

  “Just after five this afternoon.”

  “And you’ve waited until now to tell me?”

  “They were heading out 1-66 last time we saw them from the car, sir. So we decided to check with the airlines at Dulles. Turns out two passengers who fit the description were booked on a United flight to Seattle.”

  “Did you say Seattle?” A silver lining. Maybe. If this was true, he had a fair idea of where to look for them.

  “Yes, sir. We missed them by ten minutes.”

  “My congratulations on the spectacularly narrow margin. You still missed them, idiot!” Simmons disconnected the call and tossed the handset to the waiting agent. “I’m flying to Seattle tonight. Make the necessary arrangements. I’ll be taking three men.”

  “Yes, sir.” The agent left the library a lot faster than he’d entered it, undoubtedly grateful to get away from Conrad.

  Who slowly rose from his chair and faced Simmons across the room. “May I accompany you?”

  “Why? Homesick?”

  “I suppose my host is.” Conrad smiled a nasty little smile. “You appear to have been apprised of a problem. Perhaps I could make myself useful.”

  “Useful?”

  “How can I gain your trust if you do not give me a chance to prove myself?”

  True enough. And why not? Perhaps he really could make himself useful. At last, Simmons nodded. “Fine. But the necklace stays on. For now.”

  Jack carefully cranked one eye open. The world started to rotate around a hole in the ceiling. Through the hole snaked an arm-thick bunch of vines, and from their tendrils plopped a steady supply of water drops. Into his face. Which was what had woken him. He guessed.

  Ceiling.

  There’d been no ceiling before… before the cause of the headache. No ceilings in the jungle. And he was pretty sure he’d been in the middle of a jungle in the none-too-distant past. The ceiling belonged to a small room, stone walls blackened by age and slick with moisture. A single casement opened onto a dripping mass of green; foliage, trees, the whole nine yards of rainforest.

  Ah.

  The wall opposite was covered in intricate friezes, people and animals and ornaments, and Daniel probably would—Daniel!

  Jack tried to sit up and promptly wished he’d opted for Plan B. Whatever that was, it had to be less nauseating. The room revved up to a brisk 90 rpm, and suddenly the face of Dr. Jackson spiraled into view, concerned, sweaty, with a paisley bandanna tied over the busted eye.

  “Jack? Stay put, Jack.”

  By Jack O’Neill’s estimate, he’d already done too much of that. “I’ll be fine. Just give me a minute.” An hour would be more realistic, but if things played out the way they usually did, he probably didn’t have that long. “How did I
get here? And where is here?”

  “I carried you. The ruins weren’t far. This must have been some kind of wardroom.” Sitting on his haunches, Daniel slowly seesawed to a rest in front of Jack. Rumor had it he bought those bandannas on purpose. “You were out cold. I’m guessing it’s a concussion.”

  “Ya think? What the hell happened? Did I get hit by a tank?”

  “You got hit by a girl.”

  “I what?” The pieces fell into place. He remembered that indefinable sense of being watched and, seconds later, a slim, filthy, stinking figure whirling from the shadows. The business end of a staff weapon flying at his face, the shrill shock in her eyes when she’d recognized him, too late. “Carter. Did I mention I like her attitude? Where is she?”

  Wincing, Daniel nodded toward a corner of the room, a makeshift pallet, and its occupant. “I, uh… You were down, and somebody was standing over you with a staff weapon. I kinda overreacted. Knocked her flat.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Nothing as inherently funny as misguided acts of heroism, huh?”

  True. Except it could have been a real Jaffa with real Jaffa brethren lurking in the bushes. As far as Jack was concerned, heroism lay in the intention rather than the outcome. “Thanks anyway.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “Fraiser and Teal’c?”

  Daniel gave a despondent little shrug. “No idea. All I know is that the staff weapon Sam used isn’t Teal’c’s.”

  “You can tell?”

  “Sure. The markings are all different, depending on—”

  “Make, model, and year.” .

  “Something like that.”

  “Crap.” A real Jaffa with real Jaffa brethren lurking in the bushes… and where there were Jaffa, there usually was a Goa’uld. “Crap,” Jack muttered again. “So, where did Carter leave Teal’c and the doc? Did she say?”

  Another wince. “No. I haven’t talked to her yet.”

  “Come again?”

  “She’s in real bad shape. Jack.”

  Thankfully, the room was so small Jack could get away with just scooting over to Carter’s pallet on all fours. Standing up might have been tricky. Daniel had cleaned her up as best he could, whittling down a solid layer of grime to smudges of dirt on a waxy face. Wrapped around one leg was a pristine bandage, looking absurdly out of place.

  Jack stared at it. “What?” he said.

  “It’s nasty. Deep gash, and it’s infected. I put antibiotics on it, but…”

  The rest became a blur of sounds, throbbing in tune with Jack’s headache. Not just infected, if the jaundice and the odor were anything to go by. He’d seen this once before, in a rebel camp in Honduras, and he’d hoped to hell he’d never have to see it again. Sweet Jesus, not Carter! He shouldered the thought aside. There was no place for it now. If and when the time came, he’d do what he had to do, but on the whole the preferable option was finding Fraiser. After all, they did have a tame doctor running around somewhere in this hellhole.

  As gently as he could he patted her cheek. “Carter? Rise and shine. Time for a debrief.” No reaction. Another pat. “Come on, Major. Sitrep. Now! That’s an order.”

  She moaned a little, and suddenly her eyes flew open on a flash of panic that melted into toe-curling relief. “Sir,” she whispered, voice brittle. “I thought… dead… I didn’t… I—”

  “You whacked me upside the head, Carter. How’s that gonna kill me?” He forced a grin, hoped she’d buy it. “If you’d whupped my ass, maybe, but my head? Hardest material known to man.”

  Bingo. It was wan and diffident, but it was a smile alright. Duration needed work, though. The panic crept back, in its wake something dangerously close to despair, and she pushed herself up on her elbows. “You shouldn’t be here. You can’t—” For the first time she seemed to clock Daniel. “You neither. What happened to your face?”

  “Amazing, isn’t it?” Jack said agreeably and didn’t quite manage to evade a kick to his ankle.

  Feigning innocence, Daniel crouched and handed Carter his canteen. “Nothing serious. Little difference of opinion with some Marines on ’335.”

  The canteen jerked and spouted a splash of water. “Jaffa,” she hissed.

  Jack wheeled around; a move he immediately regretted, especially once the window had juddered into focus and he failed to spot any hostiles outside or elsewhere. “No Jaffa, Carter. We’re—”

  “The Marines, sir. The Marines are Jaffa.”

  Oh great. He exchanged a glance with Daniel, who barely perceptibly shook his head. Maybe he was right. Maybe they should just let—

  “I’m not delirious, Colonel!” And maybe she was right, too. Her eyes were fever-bright, but she seemed lucid enough. Pissed enough.

  “Okay, Carter. How about you start with In the beginning and work your way forward from there?”

  Haltingly and with something less than her usual precision, she did just that. By the end of it she’d answered questions Jack hadn’t even known he had. However, the two most important answers were missing. Where was the DHD? And where in the blazes were Teal’c and the doc? She couldn’t say, and pushing her into speculations would get them nowhere.

  “Good job, Major,” he murmured. “Now grab some sleep.”

  “But, sir—”

  “Sleep, Carter!”

  “Yessir.”

  Five minutes later she’d dozed off.

  Jack scrubbed a hand over his face, mixing sweat with grime and evenly distributing the mess. Great camouflage, if nothing else. What he wanted to do was get up and pace and fiddle with stuff and generally drive the natives nuts. Spread the joy. Given that the room measured about ten by ten feet and held two men, the pallet, a backpack, and one major, that was a bit of a no-no, even by his standards. The realization didn’t diminish the urge.

  While Carter and Teal’c had proved conclusively that they didn’t need their CO’s able assistance to dig themselves into a real deep hole, right now said CO had no idea of how to drag them out of said hole. He should have. That’s what being in command meant, right? Right. It sure as hell didn’t mean being terrified of hopping in any direction because whatever direction you chose to hop in might be dead wrong. Emphasis on dead.

  “This isn’t your fault, Jack.”

  Perversely, Dr. Jackson’s ability to read minds—specifically Jack O’Neill’s—remained unimpaired by smashed spectacles. Having had twice his annual allowance of confessions wormed out of him earlier, Jack was in no mood to share warm fuzzy feelings. Instead he stared at the walls; anything to avoid that blue drill bore gaze coming from Daniel’s end. The faces on the wall stared back. The faces didn’t give a damn. They stared back with their blank eyes and Buddha smiles, too pretty by half and effete enough to raise Jack’s hackles. Apophis sprang to mind. And Ra, for that matter.

  “What are you going to do about Sam?” Typical Daniel. If subtle doesn’t work straightaway, switch to frontal attack. “I checked her medikit, Jack. She never used the morphine. She knows what’s coming. So do I, and we can’t afford to wait much longer. If we do nothing, she’ll go into septic shock in a day, two at the most.”

  Jack knew perfectly well and didn’t need to hear it. Didn’t want to hear it. “Daniel—”

  “I’ll do it.”

  The look on Daniel’s face made Jack swallow his reply.

  “There was this kid on Abydos. Crazy about digging up artifacts. Care to guess who he got it from?” Daniel gave a bleak little laugh. “A chamber caved in, and a stone block landed on his arm. We didn’t find him until three days later. By then the infection had set in. I was the only one who had a rough idea of what to do.”

  “You never told me.”

  “It’s not a fun story.” Daniel shrugged. “If I hadn’t put a bee in his bonnet, the kid wouldn’t have been there. I always blamed myself.”

  “I know the feeling,” muttered Jack. A shaft of sunlight pouring through the hole in the ceiling had crawled up the wall and il
luminated three of the smirking poster boys, cozily grouped together. If he had a hammer and chisel, he’d give them a nose job. Make them look like the Andrews Sisters. “Who are these guys, anyway?”

  Abruptly hauled back from the sands of Abydos, Daniel blinked. “What?”

  “Not what. Who. They.” Jack pointed at the relief.

  “Oh.” Daniel scrambled to his feet and walked closer to the wall, until he actually could see what he was talking about. “They’re the original Rakshasas. Bhaya, Mahabhaya, and Mrityu.”

  “Of course they’re the Rickshaws. Popular vocal group in the fifties. Why did 1 ask?”

  Dr. Jackson grinned, which did interesting things to the left side of his face. “The Rakshasas are demons. Their names mean Fear, Terror, and Death.”

  “Charming. Aren’t they a bit girlie for the job?”

  “Depends on the job. They’re shape shifters. According to legend they’re the children of the Vedic goddess of death, deceit, and destruction, Danu. She’s said to have…” The sentence petered out, and Daniel stared at the relief, open-mouthed. “Uh-oh.”

  “Daniel?”

  “The lady traveled under several aliases. Dhumavati’s one of them. And so, by the way, is Nirrti. What did Sam say Macdonald’s tattoo looked like?”

  “A dove.” Jack didn’t like where this was going.

  “Or a pigeon. The pigeon’s supposed to be Nirrti’s messenger. Messenger of doom, obviously. The Atharva Veda even lists charms to ward off pigeons.” Daniel turned away from the wall and sat cross-legged on the floor. “Upon those persons yonder the winged missile shall fall! If the owl shrieks, futile shall this be, or if the pigeon takes his steps upon the fire! To thy two messengers, O Nirrti, who come here—”

  “Daniel! I get the idea. Where there are Jaffa, there usually is a Goa’uld.”

  “As far as we know Nirrti doesn’t have that many Jaffa,” Daniel offered.

  “Yeah, well. Maybe she’s started a recruitment drive,” retorted Jack, but his heart wasn’t in it. Something else had occurred to him. Something that might just—“What’s the one thing no self-respecting Goa’uld would be caught without?”