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

by Sabine C. Bauer - (ebook by Undead)

  “However what?” he asked again, trying to sound apologetic.

  The nerd made a prissy show of straightening out his dented ego and offered, “However, in all cases the subjects’ metabolism runs well above normal parameters. They burn vastly more energy than non-enhanced subjects.”

  Dammit. With some difficulty, Simmons controlled a grimace. No use getting all excited. It might be a normal side-effect of the enhancement. After all, given the rapid healing and recovery from exertion, plus the increased strength and stamina, it stood to reason that the whole system needed to be sped up, didn’t it?

  Apparently Crowley thought as much. “Well, so we feed them protein supplements and stuff. So what? I mean, they’re eating for two now, aren’t they?”

  Van Leyden’s aide spotted a chance to kiss ass and burst into uproarious laughter. Hatchet-Face stared at him as though he were an insect she’d fished from a tub of cold cream on her dresser at home, and Nerd performed an eye roll.

  “You might want to think of a campfire, General,” he addressed Crowley in the tone of infinitely strained patience one would use with a dull child. “The hotter it gets, the faster it burns.”

  “Don’t patronize me, Doctor!” snapped Crowley, making the lingering chuckles subside into a hiccup. “Just spit it out, whatever it is you’re trying to say.”

  “What my esteemed colleague is trying to say, sir,” Hatchet-Face took up the gauntlet, “is that accelerated cell metabolism means accelerated aging. We’ve also noted that it becomes more pronounced the longer the subject has been modified.”

  “And?”

  “And if this trend continues, the long-term prognosis is grim, to say the least.”

  “What’s to say that the trend will continue?” Simmons asked, knowing he was clutching at straws. “It may be a natural reaction to the symbiote and work itself out after a while.”

  Nerd piped up again. “It may, but so far our results indicate otherwise, Colonel. Two of your Marines, Sergeants”—he shuffled the papers in front of him and eventually retrieved a crumpled name list—“Poletti and Keefe, were among the first men to be enhanced, is that correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “Actually, they were the very first,” offered van Leyden’s aide.

  “Yeah, well, that would seem to corroborate our theory. Tissue samples from both these men show evidence of cell death. In addition, their bodies have started to burn muscle tissue in order to fuel an exponentially increased rate of metabolism. In the simplest of terms, gentlemen”—Nerd peered at them, one at a time—“these two men are starving.”

  “Impossible!” Crowley’s face suggested that he considered this to be an affront against the US Marine Corps in general, and against himself in particular.

  The xenodocs responded with synchronized shrugs. “It’s what the tests say,” Hatchet-Face proclaimed in a monotone. “Although there is always the possibility, as Colonel Simmons theorized earlier, that this is a temporary and normal side-effect of the enhancement.”

  Nobody looked convinced. Van Leyden cleared his throat and asked the million dollar question. “So what do you recommend we do, Doctors?”

  “The safest course of action,” stated Nerd after a quick glance at Hatchet-Face; they seemed to have argued over that one, “would be to recall the two men”—more shuffling of papers until he found the list again—“Poletti and Keefe. We propose to take them to Area 51 for observation. One of the possibilities we discussed was a high-protein, high-fat diet. It may solve the problem.”

  “Fine. Let’s do that,” confirmed Crowley. Then he turned to van Leyden. “Are Poletti and Keefe with the team that’s embarked to the training site?”

  “No, sir. Poletti, Keefe, and two others are on guard duty at the gate.”

  “Well, that’s easy enough.” Crowley looked at Simmons. “You can just pick them up when you go back. We’ll send a couple men with you to take over from the sergeants. So, if that’s all,” he added, rising. Clearly, this was to be all. “Dismissed, gentlemen… and lady.”

  Snapping of briefcase lids, rustling of documents, and scraping of chair legs blended into the usual symphony of exodus. Simmons wanted to shove aside this assembly of small-minded small-talkers and barrel out the door for some fresh air, but that would only have betrayed his anxiety. If the xenodocs—and Conrad—were right, before long they’d be back to a hundred percent failure rate. He banished the thought. He wouldn’t let it happen, simple as that. Jaffa had thrived for millennia, so there was no earthly reason why his Jaffa couldn’t do the same—and never mind Conrad’s doomsaying.

  Van Leyden headed outside and popped back a second later. “The golf carts are waiting, sirs, ma’am. We can start back as soon as you like.”

  “Right now would be good,” snapped Simmons. “We’ve been here long enough.”

  “I was going to get a snack for the journey,” Nerd protested.

  “Doctor, it’s a fifteen minute trip back to Earth. I trust you’ll last, even if you don’t go pee before we start out.”

  Ignoring the academic splutter, Simmons nodded for van Leyden to join him and climbed into the first cart. As soon as the agent had dropped into his seat, the driver, an as yet un-enhanced private, set off. Simmons supposed he should admire the “planetset”, but he had no mind for it now—if ever.

  “I want you to contact our friend,” he said. “I’d do it myself, but I’ll have to stay at the SGC for the next couple of days.”

  “Yes, sir,” van Leyden replied blankly, hedging his bets—or maybe he just was that uninspired. Then again, efficiency was more important than inspiration, and the man sure as hell was efficient.

  “And I mean her. Don’t use that tame jarhead you’ve got in place as a go-between. That’d be about as effective as sending a note of protest to Saddam’s valet. It’s time the lady understands who’s boss.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Tell her she’s been sending us defective goods. She’s got twelve hours to come up with an acceptable solution to the problem. If she doesn’t, the deal’s off.” “Off!”

  Barely suppressing a sigh, Simmons stared out across the plain and thought that it closely resembled the intricacy of some people’s brains. “It’s a bluff of course. She’ll suspect it, but she can’t risk to call me on it. She depends on us for delivery of the symbiotes.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  In the ensuing silence, the golf cart rattled on into the gorge. The towering rock seemed to stifle any form of conversation, not that Simmons minded. A couple minutes later, they rounded a narrow bend and rolled toward the opening into the crater. Thank God for—

  His prayer of thanks was interrupted by a sharp jolt. The driver had slammed on the brakes hard enough for them to be all but rear-ended by the second cart. “What the hell?” he enquired of no one in particular.

  “What the hell?” echoed van Leyden.

  Simmons refrained from making it a trio, but he shared the sentiment. The gate and DHD were deserted, the guards nowhere in sight. They hadn’t come back to camp—they would have been seen—and they couldn’t have flown out of the crater. The only explanation that made any sense at all was that they’d left through the gate. But why?

  “Take us closer,” he said to the private. “Slowly.”

  The close-up revealed nothing new. The men were gone, seemingly without a trace. Van Leyden leaped from the cart and ran over to the DHD, where he dropped to his knees to unfasten the lid of an inspection hatch in the base of the device. For a long time he stared at what looked like some kind of early learning toy—colorful crystals arranged in no pattern Simmons could discern.

  At last van Leyden closed the hatch and straightened up. “It hasn’t been tampered with, as far as I can tell. The changes still are as per your diagram.”

  Conrad’s diagram, to be precise, but Simmons wasn’t about to correct the mistake.

  “They’re not here,” observed Hatchet-Face.

  “Gee, really?�
� the private muttered under his breath.

  Nerd sniffed, dolefully glanced skyward, and said, “Let’s go. I’m feeling watched. This place has a bad aura.”

  Bad aura. Christ almighty! The guy probably saw purple and green halos around everybody. Then again, the underlying notion wasn’t too far off the mark. Simmons, too, felt exposed—watched. “Van Leyden, dial up Earth. No point in us hanging around. Notify Crowley and tell him to find those men. When you’ve got them, send them back. In the meantime, keep me posted. I’ll be at the SGC.”

  The holographic screen showed liquid swirls of red, throbbing, transforming, until they flowed into the shape of two helices embracing one another. They would link, their joints would bond, and they would be functional as before. Only more so. Much, much more so.

  Nirrti smiled. The Tauri’s genetic profile was surprising, to say the least. It contained material she had never encountered before, and he had been subtly altered, as though someone had meant to prevent him from doing the things his genes said he was able to do. In some ways he already was hak’taur—all she needed to achieve was activation of his programming. It proved more difficult than expected.

  A fraction of a second before the marriage of the helices was completed, golden starbursts erupted at the precise center of each link, tearing the bonds, forcing the strands of red apart to dull and fade. Again. She cried out in shrill frustration, swiped her hand over one of the luminous control pads. The slender white beam aimed at the area of his body where the umbilical cord had been attached once—her host called it a chakra, whatever that meant; and what a curious way of gestation the Tauri had—waned and winked out. The same instant another hologram rose from the console; a pumping lump of muscle that twitched erratically, as if to flash out a warning or signal its distress.

  The energy flow that altered the subject’s genetic structure—was supposed to alter the subject’s genetic structure—also supported the vital systems during the transformation process. Once the process was concluded—successful or not—the subject’s body was on its own again, for better or worse. In the Tauri’s case, for worse. His heart was weakening rapidly now.

  She dredged her host’s mind for a suitable curse and vented her rage. Of course, it did not change anything. Not her inability to break his body’s code, not the fact that, before long, that body would give out and have to be revived in the sarcophagus, while she would be subjected to the tedium of waiting for him to heal. Barely quelled, her anger rose again, and her fists struck the console. Then she pushed herself away, and marched across the room to where he lay, unmoving.

  Although his eyes were wide open, he neither turned his head nor glanced at her sideways. He could not. The second energy beam, the one that connected to his forehead—another chakra, according to her host—rendered him immobile. Not so much as a wink of an eyelid, unless she permitted it, and she had no intention of granting that permission. He was too dangerous, and they were not finished yet. Not for a long while.

  But she would grant him a moment’s respite. His breathing was shallow, and his face and body were glazed with sweat, despite the low temperature of the laboratory. Across one cheek ran a glittering trail of moisture. Not sweat. He could not cry out, of course—any form of vocalization required movement after all—but tears were entirely possible.

  Nirrti cupped the side of his face with her left hand, thumb brushing at the fluid. Yes. Tears. She briefly wondered if there was a way of suppressing it, decided that it was immaterial, and leaned closer.

  “What is your secret? What is it? What are you?” Her right hand lightly stroked his chest. “It is unfortunate that you cannot tell me. It would be easier on you. But I shall do my best to work quickly.” To her amazement, Nirrti recognized that she meant it. “I promise you,” she added, the phrase feeling odd and unfamiliar, as though her host had regained control and were reciting words first spoken in a distant past. “I—”

  “Lady Nirrti!”

  She whirled around, instantly furious at her own carelessness—she should have heard the door slide open—and at the impertinence of her First Prime. “How dare you intrude here?”

  “Forgive me!” The man prostrated himself, shaking. At least he knew he had transgressed. “Forgive me, Lady Nirrti. I had to notify you immediately. There is… an aberration.”

  The only aberration she could see was the sniveling cretin at her feet. “What do you mean?”

  “You should see for yourself, Lady Nirrti. That’s why I’ve come. Colonel Simmons’ Jaffa have returned.”

  Which, if true, would indeed merit the name aberration. What was Simmons trying to do? Tax her patience until she had no choice but to annihilate him? Presumably, the actions of his Jaffa would answer that question. She would have to see for herself indeed. What a pity. The timing was regrettable, but the experiment need not be interrupted. She focused her thoughts, imagining she could feel them vibrate and amplify through the minute crystal behind her right ear, and summoned Mrityu. And that, Nirrti admitted, was a most satisfactory idea. Mrityu would agonize over this, yet she would have no choice but to obey.

  By the time the woman arrived, Nirrti was smiling again. Frantic to be of service, to be wanted, after her earlier dismissal, Mrityu shambled into the laboratory. Her gaze held a thoroughly gratifying mix of dread and eagerness and, predictably, wandered to the surgical table and the supine form of the Tauri.

  Ah yes. You find it distressing, do you not?

  Mrityu gave no reply other than to exude a mangled flow of despair and fear and outrage. It was good enough. Deciding to amuse herself for a moment or two, Nirrti relinquished her hold on the healer. She could regain it whenever she pleased, and this brief spell of freedom would serve to torment the woman even more.

  As if pulled on a chain, Mrityu darted toward the table and to the Tauri’s side. Fingers, slight and trembling, wrapped around his wrist, feeling for a pulse. What they felt clearly displeased Mrityu. Her features knotted in shock, and her hand released the Tauri’s wrist to touch his face, much in the same way as Nirrti had touched him only minutes ago.

  “Colonel?” whispered Mrityu. “Can you hear me, sir? Colonel O’Neill?”

  “He can hear you. However, he will not be able to answer until I allow it,” Nirrti advised her.

  Mrityu’s head shot up, and she stared at Nirrti. “What the hell have you done to him?”

  “What needs to be done. When I have finished with him, he will be immeasurably more useful than the pathetic creature you choose to call your daughter.” Nirrti slid closer, as if to reassert ownership of the Tauri—and to drive home the invisible blade of guilt. “I am indebted to you. By denying me the girl, you have forced me to look elsewhere. And of course, you were kind enough to deliver him to me.”

  If the loathing in Mrityu’s eyes had been a weapon, Nirrti would be dead. Sadly for the healer, wishes could harm no one. “I had no choice,” the woman hissed. “I had no choice, and you know it.”

  Nirrti relished her pain. It was sweet-scented and savory. “Do not blame your weakness on me. You wanted to live. You could have permitted yourself to drown in the pond, and none of this would have happened. But no. You were so desperate to survive you could not wait to offer your fealty. You betrayed him and the others so you could live.”

  Shuddering under Nirrti’s words as though they were physical blows, the healer turned back to the Tauri, took a limp hand in hers to stroke it. “It’s not true, sir. Please, Colonel, don’t believe—”

  “He will not have to believe,” Nirrti said gently. “He will know. Because you shall perform a service for me.”

  The way Mrityu recoiled was almost comical. “No!”

  “Yes. We both know you will. Now listen carefully.” Tightening her grasp on the healer’s mind slightly, to ensure that Mrityu would indeed listen and retain the information, Nirrti explained the workings of the console and how to calibrate the beam. “You will repeat the procedure continuously either until I return
or until you obtain the desired result. Do you understand me?”

  Thoughts and emotions were pummeling the walls of Nirrti’s awareness like puny fists. The healer was fighting her, more stubbornly and angrily than ever before—not that it would change the outcome. “No!” Mrityu gasped again, a flopping little fish, on the hook and already hurled from the safety of water. “It would kill him.”

  “It almost certainly will,” retorted Nirrti. “He is weak. When he dies, revive him in the sarcophagus and continue.” She forced herself further into Mrityu’s mind, felt the healer cling to a fragment of an imperative embedded too deeply for Nirrti to eradicate.

  First, do no harm.

  “What does that mean?” she demanded.

  With a scream of rage, Mrityu pushed her back and clutched the Tauri’s hand in a death grip. “Stop me, sir! For God’s sake, stop me! She’ll make me do it, if you—”

  “Enough!” The game was beginning to get boring. Nirrti thrust the full force of her will at the healer and sensed the barriers crumble. It was less sensual than taking a host. But it was far more challenging. Taking a host meant coercing a body. This meant coercing a mind. “Do it,” she said and smiled.

  Mrityu’s hand relinquished its hold on the Tauri, jerkily, like the limb of a puppet manipulated by two players, one of whom was inept. Then she staggered across the laboratory and to the console, to study panels and recall Nirrti’s instructions. Embraced by soft light, her fingers crept over the control pad, reactivated the transformer beam.

  With a brief, satisfied nod, Nirrti turned to her First Prime, who had been watching impassively, still kneeling on the floor. “Come. Show me this aberration,” she said, delighting in the smooth play of muscles as he rose.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Kin Selection: Behavior that lowers an individual’s own chances of survival in order to enable the continued existence of a relative.