07 - Survival of the Fittest

by Sabine C. Bauer - (ebook by Undead)

  Anyhow, it was a moot point now, wherever the damn barrels had gone. If Hammond stayed out of the picture—and Frank Simmons fully intended to ensure that the he did—the days of the sergeant and the nerd and the entire herd of Hammond fans at the SGC would be numbered. With SG-1 and the good General having disappeared so tragically, there was nothing to stand in the way of progress. Fate was a funny thing, Simmons reflected. The rigged USMC/Air Force exercise—originally intended as a springboard for shoehorning the Marines past Stargate Command and into a place where they could operate according to NID requirements—had snowballed in ways nobody had ever dreamed of. One of the advantages was that the problem of communicating with M3D 335 was a thing of the past—though, admittedly, Simmons’ presence on the moon now was down to curiosity more than anything else. He wanted to see his Jaffa.

  Ahead, a cluster of miniature huts and fences that formed the camp grew steadily larger. One of the Area 51 scientists perched in the back of the golf cart peered at it and offered his expert opinion. “Bit unprotected, isn’t it?”

  Crowley, who was driving, gave a snort and cast a quick glance over his shoulder. “It’s perfectly protected. Visibility works both ways. In the unlikely event that anyone actually gets past security at the Stargate, the guys in camp’ll see them coming from the literal mile off. The only way of dropping in unannounced is from the air, and that isn’t going to happen here. The Marine Corps owns this moon.”

  The xenodoc sniffed, unconvinced, but he didn’t offer any further strategic insights. His colleague, a hatchet-faced brunette, sighed in ennui. Simmons half expected her to chant Are we there yet?

  Ten minutes later they were there, and Crowley displayed the good sense to nip Norris’ welcoming ceremony in the bud. “Take it as read, Colonel,” he barked when Norris threatened to protest. “We want to see the men who have completed survival training.”

  He should have said successfully, Simmons thought. They’d all completed it. Some were just deader than others.

  “Yessir!” Norris snapped, bright red in the face. Then he turned to the sixty or so Marines lined up on the square. “Everyone fall out, except Alpha platoon.”

  Men started to scramble, scaring up a cloud of dust. Some headed for the mess barrack to gossip over coffee; others hung around the fringes of the square to watch, probably jealous of the men who’d been singled out. His Jaffa, the first step toward assuring Earth’s safety and the continuation of the American way of life.

  There were twenty of them, plus an additional four on guard duty at the gate. Better than projected. The way this was going, they could start assembling Beta platoon before the week was out. Still, the twenty men who made up most of Alpha seemed adrift in the vast central square of the camp. Simmons knew damn well that he’d been entertaining visions of an army and that visions rarely corresponded to reality, but the frustration was there and nagging. So far they’d sent out almost a hundred Marines and lost most of them. But, as he’d repeatedly tried to persuade himself, a twenty-five percent success rate wasn’t to be sneezed at. Well, nearer thirty percent, if you figured in Nirrti’s share. And the fact of the matter was, before Nirrti had come on the plan, they’d had a failure rate of one hundred percent. Those were figures you couldn’t argue with.

  Van Leyden, the NID agent in charge on the moon, slipped in behind him. “Nice of you to stop by, Colonel. Looking good, aren’t they?”

  Superficially the men looked no different, except perhaps for the fact that they were glowing with health. Even the three who had returned from “survival training” only yesterday. After what they’d been through, they should at least show a few scrapes and bruises, but none had so much as a hangnail.

  “Yeah,” Simmons agreed. What else was he supposed to say? That he wished they wouldn’t have to pay in Jaffa? “Any complaints from our good friend, Lady Nirrti, regarding her reimbursement?”

  “According to the reports she haggled like a bazaar dealer, but in the end she agreed to twenty percent. No histrionics since.”

  That was a surprise. From what Simmons had witnessed, Nirrti would give up her lifeblood rather than her histrionics. And a Goa’uld actually honoring a bargain? Rare, by all accounts. The rarity being one of the reasons why Conrad was back in his cage—throwing straw from it, for all Simmons cared. “You’re sure?”

  “Yep. Master Sergeant Macdonald is our liaison at the other end, and he’s in charge of seeing that she sticks to the deal. Macdonald says she kept six of the guys. I can give you their names, if you like. I can also give you the casualty list. It’s long, but that was to be expected. Only the very best made the cut. These guys are good to start with, and in order to make it they had to go up against each other.”

  With a little persuasion courtesy of Nirrti’s technical expertise. Which meant she could have tried her hand at persuading subjects other than those designated. Simmons had a fleeting memory of an infatuated young farm boy. “Is Macdonald aboveboard?” he asked.

  It got a laugh from van Leyden. “You mean did she turn him? No way, Colonel. Macdonald’s third generation USMC. His old man’s sergeant major to the Commandant. Nobody turns Macdonald. Besides, I’m in regular contact with him. I’d have noticed if something were off.”

  “Let’s hope so.” Simmons still wasn’t entirely convinced. Then again, why waste time questioning things that actually worked out? He directed his attention back to the square.

  Crowley was holding forth about what an honor this was and how Alpha platoon would perform to the greater glory of God and country. The men seemed to believe it. Just as well. Once Crowley had finished pontificating, Norris took over to handle the mundane. Alpha platoon was to report to sickbay for medicals. The doctors were expecting them. Simmons wondered briefly what Norris would say if he knew the real specialty of the doctors newly arrived from Area 51.

  “Norris is developing a spine,” van Leyden whispered. “He’s been giving me hell over that incident with O’Neill and Jackson.”

  “He knows they never made it back Earthside?”

  “No. Not yet, anyway. But he was pretty shocked when things got rougher than absolutely necessary. Our boys still have problems gauging their own strength. Anyway, he could cause trouble down the line.”

  “Well, in that case I’d suggest another unfortunate gate malfunction.”

  A warm breeze chased dust devils across the square, playing around the men’s feet as Alpha platoon fell out in the direction of the shack that housed the sickbay. Crowley ambled over to Simmons and van Leyden.

  “Pleased with what you’ve seen, Colonel?”

  “Yeah,” Simmons grunted, unwilling to engage in a back-patting fest just yet.

  “So what are your plans? Staying around for a while?”

  “General, my urge to sleep in tents is something I learned to control years ago. First time at summer camp, if I remember correctly. So, no, I won’t be staying. I’ll wait for the preliminary results of the medicals and then head back to the SGC.”

  “Suit yourself.” Crowley gave a shrug and pointed in the direction of the mess. “How about a coffee while you’re waiting?”

  Simmons’ preferred blend was dark-roasted Sumatra, freshly ground, which the mess probably didn’t serve. On the other hand, accepting the invitation definitely beat standing out here and admiring the orange-bulge-set. “Thanks.” He started heading for the mess building. “By the way, General?”

  “Yes?”

  “That idea we discussed?”

  “And which one of your many ideas would that be, Colonel?” Crowley chuckled and sneaked a glance at van Leyden, inviting applause. Van Leyden knew better than doing him the favor.

  “The one that’ll take care of the little problem that’s been accumulating at the training site.”

  “Would that be the problem that’s been aggravated since your boy van Leyden here had the snot beaten out of an Air Force officer and a civilian before marooning them on our playground?” Apparently, the ge
neral didn’t take kindly to his jokes being ignored.

  “Look, General, let’s not get into a pissing contest, shall we? Otherwise I’d see myself forced to remind you how this mess started.” Simmons smiled. “We’ve got to test the men one way or another, so they might as well do something productive instead of setting new records for one-armed pushups.”

  “Alright, alright!” Some of the Marines still loitering on the square were stealing curious looks. Realizing that he had an audience, Crowley lowered his voice. “I never said I didn’t agree with you. Better not to leave any loose ends. When do you want to stage it?”

  “The sooner, the better. Tonight. And General?”

  “What?”

  “If Alpha comes across the SGC’s Jaffa, they’re to take him alive. We may need him.”

  “Daniel Jackson. I insist that you take a rest!” This time Teal’c seemed to mean it. He caught a fistful of Daniel’s shirt and yanked hard. “We cannot afford to lose our way because you are ailing. You shall rest and you shall eat.”

  “We cannot afford to waste time on lunch breaks!” Admittedly, his protest would have had more impact if Daniel hadn’t listed in the direction of that fistful of shirt.

  Teal’c caught him and safely deposited him on the ground. “It will be dinner break.”

  “That wasn’t fair,” muttered Daniel, wondering if the hallway would stop bobbing any time soon. It felt like getting back on dry land after a round-the-world sailing trip. Maybe sitting down wasn’t such a bad move after all. The two gunshot wounds didn’t trouble him; they were mere scratches. His head was different matter. It hurt to the point of Daniel occasionally losing what was left of his vision. The latest such incident had prompted Teal’c’s little attack, which was pointless anyway. Daniel had no appetite whatsoever. He closed his eyes instead, knowing he couldn’t risk falling asleep.

  The echo of soft footsteps told him that the two Marines had caught up, but he didn’t bother to look. Instead he listened to a rustle, pop, rattle, and glug—at least until somebody nudged his shoulder too insistently to ignore. Daniel looked.

  Sergeant Lambert was crouched in front of him, holding out a canteen and a couple of ten-megaton Tylenol to his erstwhile victim. “Take those. They should work. I’m real sorry, Dr. Jackson.”

  “Thanks, Sergeant. And quit apologizing.”

  Not having a clue of what Daniel had said, Lambert nodded. “Sorry, sir. I mean it.”

  “Oh for God’s sake!” Daniel swallowed the Tylenol and grabbed Lambert’s sleeve.

  “What, sir?”

  Using the canteen like a gavel, Daniel started tapping the man’s arm: -.-. .- -. .. - .- .-.. .-. . .- -.. -.-- .-.-.- .. - ... --- -.-

  “c-a-n i-t a-l-r-e-a-d-y. i-t-s o-k,” Lambert spelled out. Then he grinned. “Not bad. When did you learn that?”

  At age seven in the Valley of the Kings, because the second-hand radios mom and dad had didn’t work worth a damn underground The prospect of having to tap this out in Morse code sent the hallway bobbing again, so Daniel simply shrugged and smiled. It probably made him look enigmatic.

  Corporal Wilkins had dug four MREs from his pack. Now he peeled out the candy bars and thrust them at Daniel, who accepted despite his lack of appetite. Sugar always worked. It might actually keep him going for another twenty minutes or so. Munching chocolate, he studied the corridor.

  They’d all agreed that approaching the fortress out in the open would be a very bad idea, so he’d led Teal’c and the two Marines back into the maze of rooms, hallways, and subterranean passages he’d found yesterday. Had it only been yesterday? He was losing track of time. Another bad idea.

  For about six hours they’d been heading steadily north, slowed down by dead ends that forced them into an endless succession of detours. Currently they sat in what looked like another cul-de-sac, which was lousy news. They were fast running out of options on this level, and doubling back to try their luck on the floor above held little appeal—or hope.

  Like everywhere, the walls were crumbling. Dislodged by gigantic roots that had squeezed their way into the corridor, masonry had fallen and lay in moss covered heaps on the ground, creating an obstacle course—not improved by the darkness. This far in, there were no more mirrors to channel daylight, and they were dependent on the Marines’ flashlights. The batteries wouldn’t last forever, though. Unless they found an entrance to the fortress soon, they’d have to fashion torches—but maybe not just yet.

  Staring at the roots, something struck Daniel as odd. He wolfed down the remainder of the second candy bar, scrunched up the wrapper, and groped his way up the wall and to his feet. The Tylenol seemed to have kicked in, but the hallway was still bobbing. Never mind. He’d marched through earthquakes before. Navigating from root to root, he stumbled the five yards to the end of the corridor.

  “Daniel Jackson. What are you doing?” Teal’c used the exquisitely cautious tones of someone dealing with a raving lunatic.

  “Come have a look at this!” Knowing what it would do to his head, Daniel resisted the temptation to laugh. “I should have seen it right away!”

  It being the conspicuous absence of roots drilling though the wall that closed off the tunnel. More importantly, either side of the blockage was a figure carved in the stone.

  “What is it?” asked Teal’c from behind, still sounding therapeutic—possibly to do with the fact that there was nothing to look at. Though that, very likely, had been the point.

  “Speak friend and enter.“ Daniel whispered ecstatically. Gandalf in the Mines of Moria, indeed.

  “I do not understand.” Teal’c’s tone was graduating from therapy to Diazepam.

  “It’s from a book, Teal’c. These people are trying to open a closed gate, and Speak friend and enter is the only clue they’ve got toward the password.”

  “I see. Unless I am mistaken, the password was mellon, meaning friend.” At Daniel’s one-eyed stare of disbelief, Teal’c looked just about as smug as he could manage. Very, in other words. “I have seen the movie.”

  “Uhuh.”

  “You believe that this is a similar mechanism?”

  “I believe it’s a door,” Daniel replied. “See those two figures. They’re dikpals.” Possessed by the sudden, inescapable notion of what Jack would make of that name, he brought his face back under control and pointed at the carvings. “It means guardians or gatekeepers—and they wouldn’t guard just nothing. There’s got to be an entrance here. Between you and our friends, we should be able to open it.”

  Like rubberneckers who’d arrived at an accident site too late, the Marines had joined them without understanding what all the excitement was about. Wilkins was the first to twig on. When Teal’c leveled his staff weapon at the wall, the corporal placed a restraining hand on his arm.

  “Hang on. I’m thinking we don’t wanna raise a whole lot of noise unless it’s unavoidable. See this?”

  “There’s a crack there?” And no, Daniel couldn’t see it, though that wasn’t entirely surprising. He watched Wilkins’ fingers outline a six by six foot square on the wall.

  “Might as well try pushing,” the corporal suggested.

  They did. Two United States Marines and one Jaffa were pushing that wall to within an inch of its life, and nothing moved. Teal’c longingly eyed his staff weapon. Not yet. Daniel reached for the nearest piece of metal, which happened to be Lambert’s canteen again, unclipped it from the sergeant’s belt, and started knocking along the invisible square Wilson had drawn. Down the left vertical, the sound changed pitch. The wall was thinner there, which only made sense—unless it had some kind of bevel, the door couldn’t open. Never underestimate a sugar high.

  “It’s got a central hinge,” Daniel guessed. “Push on the right.”

  Three brawny men applied their combined weight to the right half of the panel. Without so much as a creak, the massive stone slab began to pivot until it stood parallel to the corridor walls, leaving a two-and-a-half foot gap on
either side.

  “Open Sesame,” said Sergeant Lambert.

  “Wrong story,” Daniel remarked under his breath and turned to Teal’c. “We’ve got to leave Wilkins and Lambert here. In there they’ll be at too much of a disadvantage—besides, we need somebody to keep the door open.”

  It took a while to persuade the Marines that it wasn’t an issue of trust, but eventually they bowed to common sense. Lambert even went as far as offering Daniel his sidearm. The offer was declined in Morse, complete with an explanation of how Teal’c’s staff weapon and zat would be quite sufficient. The two men, still grumbling, settled in behind the door, and Daniel and Teal’c slipped through one of the gaps into what Daniel hoped was Nirrti’s fortress.

  At first glance it was a dead ringer for what they’d encountered on the other side; walls in need of repainting, rubble-strewn corridors, tree roots in search of space. But the tunnel was leading steadily uphill now, there was less water damage, and at last the roots gave up, too. After about an hour of silently creeping up the passage, Teal’c froze and snapped off the flashlight. Darkness dropped like a lead weight, but once his vision had adjusted, Daniel could make out a faint bright glimmer—miles away it seemed.

  “Someone is ahead,” whispered Teal’c. “I can hear footsteps and voices.”

  Daniel had long given up on jumping at this type of announcement from Teal’c. Jaffa hearing was at least twice as acute as anything mere humans had to offer. “Any idea how many?”

  “Not yet. We are too far away still. How do you wish to proceed?”