[Stargate SG-1 07] - Survival of the Fittest

by Sabine C. Bauer - (ebook by Undead)

  Keep this up, and you’ll have accommodated her plans inside the next two hours, Jackson.

  An insistent little voice told him to try and find Teal’c, but this idea was nearly as crazy. Teal’c was the proverbial needle in a planet-size haystack—if he was still alive. In light of last night’s events, Janet’s admission that she had lost him could be interpreted in any number of ways. The only sensible choice was to get back to the Stargate, find the DHD, bring help. Sometimes he hated sensible choices.

  Slowly he turned and squinted at the blur of the ruined city spread out below; a sea of stone, unmoving and unmoved. Far in the east stone seemed to butt onto thin air. It had to be the temple where the Stargate was; it stood on a cliff rearing over the forest. To the north the terrain rose steeply, its highest point occupied by a fuzzy gray blob. If he were Nirrti, he’d camp out up there. Daniel filed the thought away for further examination. Southward, the gaps between buildings seemed to widen until they opened into one large space, lined by the city wall and the jungle beyond. Inset into the wall was what had to be a gate. Of course, at that distance, he was unable to tell a trolley from a trampoline, though on the whole a gate made more sense than either of the other two items.

  Daniel decided to head south.

  By the time he’d reached the bottom of the staircase, the sun had climbed above the rooftops and was teasing the back of his head. Flies started buzzing in the warm air, and somewhere to his right he heard the faint murmur of the waterfall. He turned left, out of the sun and into a narrow alley that, two corners on, began to meander wildly until he could no longer tell which way he was going or whether he’d doubled back on himself. Great. So when was this wide-open-space thing going to happen?

  Ahead was a building that once might have been an inn of some sort. Behind a crumbling archway lay an inner court seamed by two tiers of galleries. Bamboo ladders connected the galleries to the ground and led up to a roof terrace, maybe high enough to overlook the area and recover his bearings.

  Rungs creaking under his boots, small plumes of dust billowing from the twine that tied the ladders, he climbed to the top. The terrace was dotted with holes where joists had given and the ceiling collapsed into the rooms below. Carefully, Daniel picked a path to the parapet. He hadn’t gone back on himself. Not quite, anyway. He’d just ended up a lot further east than planned. His best option was to make it to the city wall and follow that to the gate.

  “Turn tail and run,” he whispered bitterly. Knowing that it wasn’t true, that getting himself killed wouldn’t save Jack and Sam, didn’t help. It sure as hell felt like he was running—leaving them behind. And nothing to be—

  The shot missed him by a whisker, passing close enough for a whiff of displaced air to brush his skin. Swearing, he dropped flat behind the parapet just as a second round tore past. This one would have hit him. Daniel crawled a couple of meters along the wall and cautiously inched his head over the edge. Number three grazed his ear, and he ducked with a gasp, dabbing at the trickle of blood on his neck. The shooter definitely was getting warm—and whatever else he or she might be, it wasn’t Jaffa. After five years of playing with the things against his better judgment, Daniel recognized the bark of a submachine gun when he heard it. He wouldn’t stake his life on the make and model, but that was beside the point. Jaffa didn’t use submachine guns—not even K’tano’s former mob, not anymore; Jack had repossessed the P90s.

  Keeping his head down, Daniel shouted, “You’re shooting at a friendly! My name is Daniel Jackson. I’m a civilian advisor, US Air Force, but I don’t expect you to take my word for it. So I’m going to get up for you to take a look. I’d be grateful if you could suspend target practice for the time being.”

  No reply. But no more potshots either. Hands raised, Daniel slowly came to a stand, expecting the shooter to show himself, too. Nope. Empty casements stared back at him from the building opposite, and the alley below was deserted.

  “Hey! Where are you?”

  It was instinct more than anything else. He spun around just in time to see a figure dashing from one doorway to the next. A split-second later another shot rang out, Daniel hit the deck, and the attacker scrambled for the entrance to the inn.

  “Oh crap,” muttered Daniel. “Slick move, Jackson.”

  The guy, whoever he was, meant business and didn’t give a damn about civilian advisors. For reasons best known to himself, he’d declared open season on archeologists. By now he also would have realized that his prey was unarmed. Not even a backpack to toss, Daniel thought ruefully.

  He darted back to the roof hatch and froze at the creaking and groaning of bamboo on stone. Someone was coming up the ladder.

  “Crap,” he muttered again. His only escape route had just been cut off.

  Darting precariously between the voids in the terrace floor, counting off seconds in his head, he ran for the far side of the roof. Okay, now or never. If he left it too late, he’d be toast. Daniel dropped to his knees, slid toward one of the holes. From the edges jutted the remnants of beams, and here was hoping they weren’t too rotten to take his weight. He grabbed hold of the end of a joist and eased himself into the opening, legs dangling. Holding his breath, he let go.

  And crashed hard onto the wooden floor. The drop had only been about four feet. Daniel had figured it’d be more, which skewed his landing and sent him staggering against the mildewed remains of a bed. In a cloud of dust and clatter, the bed frame collapsed under the impact. A heartbeat later the rapid thud of booted feet came from above, closing fast.

  Daniel scrambled for the door, knowing the dust would settle, but not in time to conceal the recent upheaval. Out on the gallery he started running, not caring whether he could be heard now. It didn’t matter anymore. His trigger-happy playfellow would guess where he’d gone and could come bursting from any of these rooms at any moment.

  The thought had barely formed when, in a shower of splintering wood, the shooter slammed through a door panel. In front of Daniel, not behind. For a startled second they looked at each other, then the man smiled. He was a Marine. A goddamn US Marine, so what the hell had happened to posse comitatus and all that? Of course, this wasn’t exactly US soil. And maybe this was the wrong moment to ask for clarification.

  The muzzle of the submachine gun—an MP5, incidentally—lowered to point at Daniel’s chest, and the Marine chuckled. “Run, Mr. Civilian Advisor. Run.”

  Daniel had no moral qualms about being shot in the back. Presenting the honorable front got you just as dead and quicker. He turned on his heel and hared back the way he’d come, the Marine’s laughter driving him like a gust. A hailstorm of rounds exploded around his feet. The son of a bitch was toying with him. Or not. The next burst went over Daniel’s head, too close to tell if it’d missed by accident or design. He kept running, bent low, arms curled over his head.

  Idiot! Like that’s going to protect you!

  As if to prove the point, two rounds in quick succession scraped his arms. Yelling, in rage rather than pain, he flung himself sideways through the nearest door. Mercifully, it led into a corridor rather than a guestroom. Maybe there was another wing. Preferably with an exit.

  Daniel straightened up and sprinted down the gloomy hallway. More shots rang out from the gallery, and there was shouting, words drowned out by the cackle of the gun. Too bad, but if he was honest, he didn’t much feel like making conversation. Ahead loomed a set of three doorways. He ducked through the last one, almost sobbing with relief when it opened onto a dark, narrow staircase. There was a way out after all.

  Two steps at a time, he hurtled down the stairs into a soot-blackened, windowless kitchen—and stuttered to a dead halt. If there had been a backdoor once, it was buried under a mountain of debris where the rear half of the room had collapsed. The only exit from the kitchen was the staircase. He fought down a rising tide of panic, tiptoed back to the bottom of the stairs. Maybe he’d have enough time to—No. His pal was coming.

  Across th
e room lay the upturned husk of a clay stove. When he pushed the door open a half dozen shiny eyes stared at him maliciously and three rats—or what passed for rats in this place—scurried past him. Suppressing a shudder, Daniel backed into the oven on all fours and pulled the door shut behind him. The fit was claustrophobic, the stench sickening, his whole body ached, and he’d probably die in this hellhole. In about sixty seconds or so.

  Heart racing, he tried to listen to the noises outside. A few squeals from the rats voicing their protest and then the creak of a loose floorboard on the stairs. His pal was coming alright. The footsteps were quiet, measured, made by someone in total control of the situation. All the guy had to do was rip open the oven door and turn Dr. Jackson into shish kebab.

  The footsteps stopped. Daniel gritted his teeth. Under his right hand he felt something hard and jagged. An old bone perhaps, or a shard. His fingers closed around it. He’d gut the bastard or at least go out trying.

  Sorry, Jack. Seems I was wrong. Or maybe it means that you’re—

  The door flew open. His hand shot up and instantly was clamped in an iron grip. The owner of those relentless fingers crouched, peered into the oven.

  “Daniel Jackson. I am most grateful to find you alive.” Teal’c’s face lit up in a rare, broad smile.

  He looked like a caged animal, Mrityu thought, poised to strike and devious. He was a caged animal, without discipline, without the sense to save his strength, without the wisdom to submit to his goddess. After endlessly pacing its cage until its energy was spent and reduced to helpless inertia, the animal had retreated into silence, sitting on the floor, back pushed against the wall, refusing to accept any kind of hospitality. He would be brooding, scheming, underneath.

  Mrityu deactivated the force shield and quietly slipped into the room, waiting until he took notice of her. When he did, the anger simmering in his eyes crumbled to incomprehension and the profound hurt of betrayal. The look haunted her more than she cared to admit, spoke to something—someone—she did not dare to reawaken. Though she was on her own for the moment, free of the radiant pressure in her mind, she knew that even the contemplation of misconduct might bring punishment.

  And when has that ever stopped you before?

  Not Lady Nirrti’s thoughts but a voice from deep within Mrityu herself. Frantically, she silenced it, wishing she could erase it, wishing she could avoid those dark, probing eyes. Why was he staring at her like that?

  “Lady Nirrti wants to see you,” she said, hoping he would look away.

  He didn’t.

  “What did I do, Fraiser?” he asked. “I mean, I must have pissed you off somehow. It’s the only explanation I can come up with. So what was it? Cholesterol levels too high? Blood count off? What? I’d just like to know.”

  She didn’t understand his questions. Wasn’t Lady Nirrti instructing him? Or perhaps he was slow to listen. Mrityu recalled that she herself had not truly grasped the meaning of the voice at first.

  “Give it time,” she said, trying to sound encouraging. After all it wasn’t his fault. That look in his eyes made encouragement difficult, though. She dropped her gaze, noted that the bed hadn’t been slept in. “You should have rested.”

  “Sir.”

  “Excuse me?” Mrityu blinked.

  “I still outrank you, Major. So it’s sir or Colonel or Colonel O’Neill to you. Any of the above’ll do nicely. Are we clear?”

  “You’ll soon be given a new name.”

  “Can’t wait,” he muttered. Eyes narrowing a fraction, he pushed himself up from the floor, slowly and clumsily. When he stood at last, he remained slightly stooped, arms crossed protectively in front of his chest. “What’s your name?”

  “Mrityu,” she replied.

  “Death.” His face twisted, whether in shock or anger she couldn’t tell. Struggling to keep his voice even, he asked, “She told you that’s what it means, right? Mrityu? Death.”

  “You’re lying.” But the creature within wailed, because it recognized the truth in this—so many deaths. A silken drape brushed her shoulder as she backed away, and she flinched, ducked behind the flimsy fabric as though it could shield her. “You’re lying.”

  “I think we both know who’s lying.” He took a step closer, swiped at a barrier of silk. “You and Teal’c got separated? Separated as in: you killed him?”

  “No!” Another step, and she was holding on to the drape as if to steady herself. “I disobeyed. I couldn’t… I—”

  “And Sam? She trusted you to help her.”

  “Carter is fine!”

  “Her name is Samantha. You call her Sam. She’s your friend. Your best friend.”

  “No.” Her shoulders struck the wall. No more room to back off, and he still kept coming, and that buried thing, creature, in her mind was fighting her tooth and nail. Please, mistress, help! Silence. Only silence. Mrityu was beginning to feel cold, rime chilling her body from the inside out. “Don’t! Don’t come any closer!”

  Two more steps. He wasn’t listening. “You missed the main event last night. Did you know Nirrti has ways of using a healing device that will hurt the other person? Sam eventually passed out. Before that she screamed a lot, though. First, do no harm. Is that what you were thinking of when you sold her out? And Daniel? And Teal’c? First do no harm. You swore an oath, Janet. That’s your name, by the way. Janet. Janet Fraiser and—”

  “Stop it!” She flung herself against him with everything she had.

  He staggered back against a low table, fought to regain his balance, lost, and slowly crumpled to his knees. For a while the only sound in the room were his gasps, low and shallow and never drawing enough air.

  First, do no harm. First, do no harm. First…

  “I warned you,” she whispered, shivering. “Why can’t you ever listen, sir?”

  Waves of cold coursing through her, she edged closer, crouched beside him. He’d gone chalky white, sweat beading on his forehead, and she didn’t like what his breathing was doing. The bruised ribs shouldn’t cause him so much trouble, not after all this time. How did she know that? An exercise gone wrong. And he’d blamed himself. He was a friend, too. She gently clasped his shoulders.

  “Your hands,” he panted. “Freezing.”

  “Don’t talk. You think you can straighten up a little? I want to take a look at you.”

  “I’m—”

  “Peachy. Yes.”

  “What?” His eyes flew open, and he caught her in that disconcerting gaze again. “Janet?”

  It was easier to bear now. And harder in some ways, because she couldn’t be sure whether she’d be telling him the truth. “I don’t know, Colonel. And I don’t know how long it’ll last, so—”

  “What did she do to you? Tell me, Janet. You’ve got to.”

  “Don’t, sir. Please. Don’t say anything.”

  “She’s nowhere in sight.” Of course he wouldn’t let it rest. He never did, did he?

  “She doesn’t have to be. She can make me do things.” When she lifted his shirt and touched his bare skin, he flinched. Because her hands were cold. Or because he didn’t trust her any longer—and why should he? “I’m sorry, sir.”

  “I’m starting to think it’s not your fault, Doc.”

  The bruising was worse than she recalled. Maybe ribs were broken. No wonder he—

  What are you doing? I asked you to bring him to me!

  It cut into her like shards of ice, tightened around her mind, made her want to curl up and whimper. “Forgive me, mistress. I did not mean to—”

  “Janet? Who are you talking to?” The Tauri’s eyes were on her, they hadn’t left, as though he thought he could keep the creature rampant just by staring at her.

  There is no need for words! I told you this before. Do it again and you shall be punished.

  I forgot, mistress, Mrityu stammered. I forgot.

  What did you tell him?

  Nothing. Nothing, mistress.

  A lie. It was a lie. The cr
eature had broken free. The creature had talked to the Tauri. She knew him. And if Lady Nirrti found out… Distract her. Distract her now.

  The Tauri is injured, mistress. He requires healing, else the injury will worsen.

  The silence that followed was intolerable. The Tauri kept saying things, but Mrityu barely heard him. At last the cold eased a fraction.

  Bring him.

  Yes, mistress. Yes.

  “Janet? Don’t listen to her, Janet.” The Tauri’s hands were clasping her face, freezing her skin and the flesh underneath, holding her in place so that his eyes could haunt her at leisure. “Stay with me. Come on, Janet.”

  “Let go of me!” she hissed.

  “No. I need you, Janet. I need your help. Sam needs your help. If you help us, we can all get out—”

  “Don’t ever touch me again!” She slapped his hands aside, wishing she could do the same to his gaze. Why didn’t she look away? Why? “Guards!”

  The two Jaffa had been posted outside the room and arrived within seconds, and the Tauri finally found something other than her to hold his interest.

  “Lady Nirrti wishes to see him. Bring him.” Mystified, Mrityu heard herself add, “But be careful. He is injured.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  “Stop clucking, Teal’c. I’ll be fine.” To demonstrate the veracity of this statement, Daniel Jackson flexed both arms. “Well, fine-ish,” he grumbled, and the grin he had attempted wavered a fraction.

  At first, Teal’c had taken the facial contortions for a rictus of pain. An easy mistake, considering the general state of Daniel Jackson’s features. Several bruises and lacerations had been added to the existing damage. The young man also looked worn out and dejected, which was unsurprising in light of the news he had brought. O’Neill, Major Carter, and Dr. Fraiser were in the hands of Nirrti. Teal’c intended to rectify that situation as soon as possible. He had not developed a plan yet, but he would cross that bridge when he came to it.

  “Your range of motion seems to be adequate,” he said.