07 - Survival of the Fittest

by Sabine C. Bauer - (ebook by Undead)

  “Mistress, please.”

  Something other than her own free will picked Fraiser up from the floor, her movements jerky and uncoordinated as those of a puppet. She was all but whimpering. Her eyes met Jack’s, and he saw a strange replay of what she would have seen last night: confusion, rage, and hurt. Riding on the tail of it, a flash of understanding—maybe. Then she turned away and shambled for the door.

  “Very impressive. You have come close to corrupting her, Tauri. She must be fond of you.” Nirrti’s voice made the temperature drop by another five degrees at least. “Lie down.” She pointed at the steel table.

  Hell, no! The thing looked about as cozy as a deep-frozen bale of barbed wire, and its charms paled to insignificance compared to the notion of what she’d do to him once he got up there. Next time he stood in line at the supermarket checkout he’d read one of the Who’s-dating-whom-in-Hollywood rags—anything but the National Enquirer.

  Stall, Jack. Stall.

  “First I want to see Carter.”

  He clocked her nod a split-second too late. It wasn’t for him anyway. It was for Heckle or Jeckle and a beefy fist that whacked a whole new color into the biggest bruise. The crack was audible, and he wondered if Fraiser would be pleased to know that at least one rib was broken now. The only positive thought that sprang to mind was that you needed air in order to scream, so he wasn’t screaming. To make up for it, his knees buckled, but the twins were kind enough to catch him and slap him onto the table like a side of pork.

  “Later,” said Nirrti.

  “You could have just said so,” he gasped. The steel surface of the table was icy enough to numb some of the pain. Jack tried not to move. “For God’s sake, what is it you want?”

  Her face was inches away from his, the hand with the metal claws cupped over his forehead in mockery of a caress. “What I’ve always wanted, Tauri. A hak’taur.”

  Okay, it was official. He was in trouble. Bun-deep in raw sewage. Because one of them had to be nuts, utterly and completely crazy. “You should check the manual. For hak’tauring they generally recommend using someone slightly less decrepit. As in freshly bred.”

  “Age is no consideration. I can make you as young or as old as I choose. I can make as many of you as I choose.”

  “And we’ll all be insolent and juvenile and leave a mess in the kitchen.”

  The metal tips trailed down the side of his face and traced his mouth. “Be silent.”

  Excellent advice, but Jack had a nasty suspicion that she might try to play tonsil hockey if he stopped talking. “Why me?”

  Mercifully, she straightened up and the claws went away—question was whether that calculating gaze could count as improvement. “The Asgard have shown an inordinate interest in you.”

  Crap. “Oh, come on. You know what old Thor’s like. Sucker for losers.”

  “The Asgard never do anything without cause. They are interested in you for a reason. I am curious to find that reason and use whatever it is that makes you so special, Tauri.”

  “Hey, I can tell you that. I know all the best fishing holes in—”

  “Be silent!”

  The beam of light shot from somewhere high up in the ceiling and slammed into his retinas like a white-hot piston.

  “No way this is going to work.” Harry Maybourne’s defeatist mutterings somehow found their way from behind the crate where he was hiding, across a heap of netting, and around two pallets of MREs that concealed Major General Hammond. “They’ll pull us out at the checkpoint.”

  “Shut up,” Hammond muttered back. “Siier set this up. It’ll work.”

  The truck hit a pothole and bounced any reply Maybourne might have made into oblivion. In fairness, Hammond did have his doubts, but even being found at the checkpoint beat sitting behind closed curtains in the living room of Siler’s house and doing precisely nothing. Which was what they’d practiced for an entire day. Well, they’d fine-tuned the details of the plan. Around five in the afternoon, Siler had come back, bundled them into the back of his pickup, and driven them to a logging road halfway up Cheyenne Mountain. The supply truck had been waiting for them. Its driver was an old buddy of the sergeant’s and had been instructed not to have any questions.

  They were slowing down now, and the truck rolled to a stop. Voices from outside, some banter between the MPs at the gate and the driver, then they were moving again, and the echo of the engine noise changed into something more throaty. The truck was barreling down the access tunnel, creaking to its second and final halt a minute later. Commotion and more voices outside, the tarp snapped open, and the flap clanked down. A couple of airmen clambered into the back of the truck, just as Hammond stepped out from behind his MREs.

  “Uh,” said the man in front.

  “You haven’t seen me, son,” Hammond advised conversationally. “And close your mouth. It’s getting draughty in here.”

  As per orders, the airman took control of his jaw. “Seen who, sir?”

  “Exactly.”

  “I suppose we haven’t seen this guy either,” his colleague asked, nodding in the direction of Maybourne’s head, which had risen above the crate like a dyspeptic August moon.

  “Especially not him.”

  “Christ,” groaned Maybourne. “This is supposed to be the country’s most secure air defense facility.”

  “It all depends on whom you know, Colonel. And don’t go legit on us. It doesn’t suit you.” Hammond grinned and turned to the airmen. “How about you gentlemen tell us where to take those supplies?”

  Half an hour later, Hammond and Maybourne wheeled a cart stacked with MREs out of the lift on Level 19. En route to the storage room they passed a brace of black-suited NID agents who never gave them a second glance, thus proving the smokescreen properties of olive drab fatigues. Siler was waiting for them in the storeroom. Lined up next to him sat three oil drums, two of them empty, the third filled with scrap metal and old rags.

  “Planning to start up a steel band, Sergeant?”

  “Uh… No, General.” The owlish glance Siler cast at Hammond was accompanied by a blush. “I’m really sorry, sir. It’s gonna be uncomfortable, but it was the only thing I could think of.”

  “You gotta be kidding!” Harry stared at the drums as if they were going to bite him.

  Siler’s shrug made clear that this wasn’t a joke. George Hammond had his own qualms—something along the lines of being wedged into a metal tube and not leaving it again without the aid of a blowtorch—but unfortunately their options were limited. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

  By the time they were back in the lift, inside the oil drums and on the same cart that had carried the MREs, Harry had got over his initial shock. The barrel to Hammond’s left hummed a Bob Marley number, muffled and off-key. The musical interlude was cut short by a clang, fist on steel, which advertised that Siler had no intention of getting together with Colonel Maybourne or feeling alright.

  The lift bobbed to a halt. Hammond heard the doors slide open, then the cart rattled out into the corridor. Lots of activity, boots on concrete, voices. Some he recognized, others were unfamiliar. NID? If so, they had all but taken over his base. He felt a hot bolt of anger and pushed it down—there were few things more counterproductive than blowing one’s stack while sitting in a barrel. Especially with the lid on.

  A left turn came next, and Hammond, who could draw a map of the base with his eyes closed, knew that they’d entered the gate room. By the sounds of it, the place was packed to the rafters. What on Earth was going on?

  Somebody else had the same question.

  “Hey! You there! Sergeant! What the devil do you think you’re doing?” The stuffed-up tones of Lieutenant General Crowley. It explained the crowd. Crowley was shipping out more Marines.

  “Sorry, sir.” Siler sounded anything but. “Monthly gate calibration test. Won’t take a minute.”

  “Monthly what?” barked Crowley.

  For once, Hammond shared th
e man’s sentiments. Monthly what? The sudden urge to laugh was short-lived, though. From somewhere very close came another voice.

  “I can’t recall any such test being scheduled,” Frank Simmons observed. “As a matter of fact, I can’t recall any such test being in existence. I’d like to see what’s in those drums.”

  “Sure, sir.” Siler popped the lid of the dummy barrel. “Basically, it’s just a pile of trash metal and stuff, to the weight of man. We check traveling speed, accuracy of reconstitution, that kind of thing.”

  “Test coordinates have been entered.” Sergeant Harriman, obviously briefed by Siler, announced over the PA. “Ready to dial when you are, sirs.”

  “Where are you sending these?” asked Simmons.

  “P5C-12,” replied Harriman without missing a beat and hopefully not serious. The planet had a sulfur dioxide atmosphere. “With respect, sir, it’s imperative that we conduct the test, particularly in light of the problems we’ve been experiencing in getting a lock to M3D 335.”

  “After we’ve checked the other barrels,” Simmons said suavely.

  This time there was no audible reply from Siler, and George Hammond’s heartbeat raced for a new speed record. The frantic thudding probably set off the seismometers in the control room. Was it just him, or had the temperature inside the barrel jumped by about twenty degrees? He felt a trail of perspiration trickle down his back.

  “Oh for God’s sake! Sometimes your paranoia makes me wonder, Colonel!” Bless Crowley and his impatience. “Let’s just get this over with. You can rewrite the rulebook later. Sergeant, carry on!”

  “Yessir.” Siler, somehow managing to keep the relief from seeping into his tone. “Uh, actually, General, if some of your men could give me a hand, it’d be a lot quicker.”

  Up in the control room, Harriman also had decided to speed up things. Under the whine of the klaxons, the Stargate began to dial. One by one, the chevrons locked, and Hammond could see the sequence in his mind; oddly shaped glyphs that represented Scorpio, Crater, Triangulum, Capricorn, Sextans, Sculptor, and Earth as the point of origin. The rainstorm noise of the establishing wormhole erupted, and he, Maybourne, and a barrel full of trash found themselves carried up the ramp by a crew of Marines and pushed through the event horizon.

  If anything, the trip proved that negotiating Niagara Falls in an oak cask was a stupid idea. Hammond’s drum exited the wormhole, collided with a stone dais, tipped over, bounced down a set of stairs, and rolled along some very bumpy ground. Until it came upon an obstacle that refused to be flattened.

  “Leaa! Kree no tel, Chappa’ai!” said the obstacle.

  Damn. They had a welcoming committee. Not necessarily cause for worry, but he would have preferred a quiet arrival, just in case. Several pairs of feet ran closer, the barrel began to move again, and Hammond counted his blessings. As it happened the folks out there were turning the oil drum the right way up. He worked his arms above his shoulders, placed palms against steel, and pushed. The lid popped off with a clang, provoking shouts of Kree! among his audience.

  Hammond gratefully breathed in a lungful of fresh air, chilly as ever, and began to heave himself from the barrel. Literally the first thing he saw was a pockmarked face, crowned by a golden skullcap that reflected the pale cold light of the twin suns of Chulak. Okay, cancel the reservations about the welcoming committee. The need for negotiations and a search that might have taken days had just become null and void. Maybe their luck was turning.

  The face split into a broad grin, black eyes glinting with delight. “Tal ma’te, Hammond of Texas! If you wish to thread the needle, I advise you do so in a glider. It is more comfortable.”

  “I’ll take it into consideration. It’s good to see you, Master Bra’tac. Mind giving me a hand?”

  While Bra’tac extracted him from the barrel, three young Jaffa, students or bodyguards or—almost inevitably with Bra’tac—both, investigated the other two oil drums. The discovery of Hammond’s companion resulted in raised eyebrows.

  “He is not one of your men,” Bra’tac observed.

  “No, he isn’t. Usually,” Hammond added a bit uncertainly. “Bra’tac, meet Harry Maybourne.”

  Geniality disappeared under a flinty mask of hatred. Bra’tac straightened to his full height, and a subtle shift in stance flagged up the very real threat this old warrior still represented—even at a hundred and thirty-seven years of age. “Teal’c resigned his right to disembowel you, Colonel Maybourne. I did not.”

  Maybourne, framed by two Jaffa who immediately tightened their grip on him, went positively green around the gills. His attempts to use Teal’c as a guinea pig had made him persona non grata at the SGC, but somehow Hammond hadn’t counted on the fact that Bra’tac knew. Now he wondered why not. Bra’tac was Teal’c’s teacher, mentor, surrogate father. Of course Teal’c would have told him.

  Calling himself a fool for missing the obvious, George Hammond adjusted the truth a little. “Don’t, Master Bra’tac. He has… changed his ways. Teal’c is in danger, and I wouldn’t have found out if it weren’t for Colonel Maybourne. We need your help.”

  Luckily, Harry was smart—or conceited—enough not to contradict.

  Bra’tac let go of a soft breath, but the tension in his eyes and body didn’t ease. “Teal’c is in danger?”

  “Teal’c and the rest of SG-1 and Dr. Fraiser. They’ve disappeared.” Hammond squared his shoulders against a shiver, fully aware that it wasn’t brought on by the glacier winds of Chulak. Even Bra’tac’s woolen cloak would offer no protection against this kind of cold. “Can we go somewhere a little less exposed and talk?”

  The only answer were a slight nod and an apparently telepathic order to the young Jaffa, who relented enough to allow Maybourne to walk. In a theatrical swirl of black wool, Bra’tac turned and started across the wasteland around the gate and into the forest. They hiked in silence for longer than Hammond’s back considered tolerable, until they reached a small encampment, home to about twenty warriors and their families. At its center stood a large, colorful Jaffa tent. Bra’tac motioned for his guests to enter, while people in the camp looked on curiously. No one approached to greet them. Things were in the balance, undecided as yet.

  Under a vent in the roof burned a fire, and piled around the hearth lay cushions and bolsters in the same vivid hues as the tent itself.

  Finally, Bra’tac spoke. “Sit, Hammond of Texas.” And, with a curt nod at Maybourne, “You, too.”

  As they eased themselves onto the cushions, a woman appeared, carrying a tray of food. Bra’tac waved her away, and the meaning of the gesture was clear: he was not going to break bread with Harry Maybourne just yet. Eventually he said, “Tell me what happened.”

  He listened impassively, while Hammond outlined the bare bones of SG-l’s vanishing act. The tale finished, and Bra’tac frowned. “Why do you request my help? Do you not have men enough to search for them?”

  “If I may, Master Bra’tac?” Harry damn near bowed into the cushions.

  Ludicrous as it might have looked, the show of respect had the desired effect. Bra’tac snatched a quick glance at Hammond, as if to reassure himself that this was acceptable, then he snapped, “Speak.”

  “We need an expert,” Maybourne announced. “That’s why we’ve come to you.”

  “An expert in what?”

  “Jaffa.” It got him a briskly raised eyebrow by ways of permission to continue. Harry did just that, explaining their find in Seattle and its ramifications and wisely omitting his own involvement of bygone years.

  “So you think that someone is trying to turn your Marines into Jaffa?” Bra’tac tossed a fresh log onto the fire. “It is impossible. Unless—”

  “Unless?”

  “Unless the Tauri who are behind this have acquired the assistance of a Goa’uld.”

  “Conrad.”

  Bra’tac shook his head emphatically. “No. It would require a great degree of scientific and medical knowledge.”

>   There was one Goa’uld who fit the bill, but George Hammond was in no mood to contemplate that possibility. It was a little too ugly for comfort. Besides, all of this was pure speculation, at least until they managed to dig up a fact or two. “Master Bra’tac,” he said. “We believe the key to all this is on the moon, M3D 335. Will you and your men accompany us there?”

  Only the soft crackle of the fire filled the silence. Barely daring to breathe, Hammond watched the shine of the flames play in Bra’tac’s eyes. Just as he was at the brink of gritting his teeth—or putting his fist through a cushion—a wolfish smile stole across the old warrior’s face.

  “Very well, Hammond of Texas,” said Bra’tac. “I never could resist a good mystery. We shall fight together once more.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Apoptosis: Genetically programmed cell death.

  God, this place was a dump! Frank Simmons cast another glance at the moon above his head. The pregnant misery wasn’t a moon, of course. It was the planet around which this dust ball revolved. Funny how, even centuries after Galilei and light-years across the galaxy, you still couldn’t help thinking in geocentric terms.

  He’d already decided that gate travel was overrated and wished he’d stayed Earthside, especially given his injury. If he ever got his hands on Maybourne, he’d kill the bastard. Unfortunately, Maybourne and Hammond seemed to have dropped off the face of the moon, pun intended. The NID’s best guess was that they’d slipped across the border into Canada—like a pair of draft dodgers. The thought brought a sour grin. Not that Simmons believed for a moment this would be the end of it. Hammond wasn’t the guy to let things go, and Maybourne was a pain in the ass on principle.

  While the golf cart supplied for people who couldn’t be expected to walk—himself, Crowley, and a couple of xenophysicians from Area 51—crawled from between the walls of the canyon and out into an arid plain that made North Dakota look alpine, Simmons’ mind flipped back to the so-called calibration test. Something about it had smelled fishy, if only because he knew the tech sergeant who’d shown up with the barrels. He’d interviewed the man, one of Hammond’s special cronies. Hell, what was he thinking? They all were. Including the meek-looking nerd at the dialing computer who’d provided information on P5C-12—some piece of rock with an unbreathable atmosphere that wobbled around in the general direction of Alpha Centauri. Very plausible and well-documented, except there was no way of proving that P5C-12 had in fact been the destination of the oil drums.