[Stargate SG-1 02] - The Price You Pay

by Ashley McConnell - (ebook by Undead)

  It was impossible for Carter, clad in camouflage fatigues, and Teal’C, carrying a Goa’uld energy weapon and marked with the sign of Apophis, to move through the town unremarked. Therefore, they made no attempt to be furtive. Teal’C strode down the cobbled streets like a massive ship plowing through familiar seas, and Carter scurried in his wake. The inhabitants of M’kwethet saw him coming and made it a point to get out of his way. When the black man came to a stop at an intersection she nearly ran into him.

  “What is the location of the meeting you spoke of?” Teal’C demanded.

  “I was wondering when you were going to ask that,” Carter snipped. “If you’d slow down a little I could lead the way.”

  Teal’C frowned down at her feet. “Your legs are too short.”

  “My what?”

  “Lead.”

  Carter continued to splutter, but more suspiciously now. “You’re teasing me, aren’t you? You’ve been hanging out with O’Neill too long.”

  Teal’C merely stood at parade rest, patiently waiting.

  “Oh, for crying out loud,” she muttered, unconsciously mimicking the colonel herself, and looked around to get her bearings.

  It was difficult to remember through the alcoholic haze of the night before, but surely Markhtin and Dane had said something about the Street of the Bakers, and there was an appetizing thread of an aroma coming from the west. Looking past the banners of welcome, she could see a blue sign hanging from an awning, a picture of an ear of wheat and a brown lump that probably stood for bread. Several other signs hanging from other shopfronts echoed the same theme.

  “There,” she said with more confidence than she felt. “That’s the place.”

  “You are sure?”

  Carter merely glared at him and marched off in the direction of the sign. After a moment, Teal’C followed. The astute observer might have seen the slightest twitch in the corner of his mouth.

  The shop, or house, or both, appeared to be closed for the day. The door, brown wooden planks crossed with blue supports, remained firmly shut. The ubiquitous awning, this one striped a cheerful green and white, remained down, reaching from the roofline of the first floor three-quarters of the way to the ground. The only window they could see, on the other side of the door, was small and nearly opaque, with thick yellow glass.

  The Jaffa stood by patiently. Impassively.

  Carter made a face and a fist and pounded on the door.

  The window swung two inches out from the wall and back again.

  Moments later the door opened, and a blond man in his late teens stared at them, wide-eyed.

  “Dane?” Carter asked uncertainly.

  An identical blond man popped up beside the first, blinked at the sight of the alien visitors, and hurriedly waved them into the house, smiling broadly.

  “Sam Carter,” the second twin said, leading them deeper into the house. “We are pleased you came. You said you would tell us more about your world beyond the Gate.”

  The front of the house was obviously used as the bakery shop; a wide counter covered with flour dust showed where bread had been kneaded, and several thick brown ceramic bowls were covered with damp cloths, indicating dough was still rising. Light came from the small window and from two oil lamps placed strategically in front of reflectors; when the awning was up, the room would be open and bright. Shelves behind the main counter held the remnants of the previous day’s work, in long, complicated twisted loaves and smaller, rounder lumps that resembled the image on the sign outside. No ovens were visible; Carter guessed they must be behind the house, lessening the danger from fire. The whole house smelled of yeast and fresh-baked bread, making Carter’s mouth water.

  The hallway that led from shop to living quarters was dark and small. She glanced behind her to see Teal’C filling up the passageway, blocking whatever light was available from the lamps. She was relieved to find them entering a larger room with a massive table and a huge open combination cabinet and sideboard; it was clearly the central eating and gathering place for the family. Judging from the size of the table, there were many more family members or apprentices around than were immediately visible. Carter wondered where everyone else was. Back at the Agora, perhaps, still celebrating?

  “We’re eager to hear more about your world, too,” Carter said as she and the twins seated themselves around the table. The chairs were equally massive and, like most of the furniture she’d seen on this world, intricately carved. She scooted forward; the high relief made the back of the chair uncomfortable to lean against, however lovely the tree motif might be. The table itself was empty, its wood, like that of all the furniture, polished to a high golden gleam.

  Teal’C remained standing, on guard, next to the door.

  “Uh, where’s your family? And what about the rest of your friends?” Carter went on.

  The twins shared an identical blink. “Our father and sisters are at the Great Hall, of course. It’s the celebration time. Some of the servants are in the back, tending the ovens, but they’ll join them as soon as they’re finished. Our friends”—they smiled—“well, we wanted to speak to you first. We can invite them later.” The two of them spoke together, alternating sentences. It made it even more difficult to keep track of which one was which. Carter was grateful they were sitting next to one another; it was like following a tennis match.

  “Is it true that you’ve been to other worlds?” one twin—probably Dane—asked.

  “Yes,” Carter nodded. “Many worlds. Through the Gate.”

  “And you have seen the Goa’uld?” Markhtin wanted to know.

  “Yes.” Carter glanced over her shoulder to the Jaffa.

  “Is he a Goa’uld?” The twins were alternating questions now, rapid-fire.

  “No!” Teal’C rumbled.

  “You serve them, then. You have the Sign that the Rejected Ones describe. Is it true that they live in palaces made of gold?”

  “And ivory?”

  “Does it hurt to have that thing put on your forehead?”

  “And are there thousands of people?”

  “Jareth tells stories of great magic. Are they true?”

  “Really?”

  Obviously this last point was one about which they felt considerable skepticism.

  “Wait, wait.” Carter raised her hand. “One thing at a time, okay? First, we’ve never been to the Goa’uld home-world. Yet. Second, we do not serve the Goa’uld, and they are not gods.”

  “Well, of course not,” Dane interrupted indignantly. “What do you think we are, some sort of primitives?”

  Carter hid a smile. “You’re no more primitive than we are, I promise.” She laughed a little. “We might have more advanced technology, but that doesn’t make you primitive, believe me.”

  “Well, of course not.” Markhtin got up, went over to the sideboard, also elaborately carved in what seemed to be the favored tree motif, and picked up a bowl of fruit and a platter of baked goods shaped like houses and boats and animals. “I’m hungry. Will you eat?”

  “I want to hear more about the Gates and the other worlds,” Dane demurred, reaching automatically for the food anyway, taking the bowl from his brother and placing it on the table. Markhtin opened a door in the upper half of the sideboard and got out a pitcher and cups, placing them on the table as well. Carter refused to even look as he filled one of the cups, afraid she would see the lethal brown stuff again. “How were you chosen for this travel through the Gate? Here we have contests, tournaments and games to see who is the best. Do you? Markhtin and I competed together, because we are brothers. And we’ve won many times. Both of us are Candidates.” This last was a matter of considerable pride.

  “But perhaps only one of us will be chosen to go.” This possibility clearly worried him. “The Choosing will be this afternoon in the market square,” he informed the two team members. “That’s so the Chosen may say their farewells to their friends and give away all their possessions, because the Goa’uld provide a
ll they need.”

  “We’ll both go, or not go,” Markhtin assured him. “Our mother went,” he added to his silently appalled visitors. “She was very beautiful, and very wise, and she was Chosen, and when the Rejected Ones returned they told us she had been Accepted by the Goa’uld. She won everything she competed in. Have you won often?”

  “Uh, we don’t exactly compete to visit the Goa’uld,” Carter said, feeling ill, and not only from the vestiges of hangover. She reached for a sample of the bread to cover her reaction. It was sweet and crisp, a light yellow, tasting of strange spices.

  “I want to know what they’re really like,” Dane went on, as if he hadn’t heard her, “and what really happens once one is Accepted.”

  “They live like kings,” Markhtin said through a mouthful of bread. “We already know that.”

  “How do you know that?” Carter challenged.

  “The Rejected Ones tell us so.” He swallowed, washed down the roll with a long drink of what Carter devoutly hoped was water, and picked up a small knife to peel a reddish-yellow fruit. “Alizane, Jareth, even Karlanan. They’ve been there. You haven’t. So I believe them. They tell us it is a wonderful world, very strange, with streets of gold and perfumed air. And there are many people there, all in service to the Goa’uld.”

  “Why do you call your rulers Rejected Ones?” Teal’C spoke for the second time, startling all of them. Somehow they had managed to lose track of his looming presence.

  “Because they’re the ones that aren’t Chosen,” Dane answered hesitantly. “And they get sent back, and they bring us gifts. The Goa’uld are very powerful, you know.” He laughed. “But of course you know. You’ve seen them.”

  Carter stared across the table at him and his brother. They were typical young men, indistinguishable, except for their clothing, from thousands of college freshmen back home. They ate with young men’s appetites, unconcerned with the bread crumbs sprinkled over their tunics. And Markhtin, at least, showed no fear, none at all, of the subject of their discussion.

  “Do your Rejected Ones tell you what happens to the Chosen?” she asked softly.

  “What?” Dane was more apprehensive than his twin, but eager too.

  “They’re chosen to serve them,” Markhtin said after a moment. “They’re happy. It is a great honor.”

  “The Goa’uld are using your people,” Carter said.

  “Well, of course they are,” Markhtin mumbled through another mouthful of food. “It’s part of the agreement. Because we allow them to Choose, they don’t destroy us. And sometimes they give us things. We’re very lucky to be able to serve the Goa’uld.”

  “A long time ago, they threatened to destroy us,” Dane explained. “So we came to this agreement with them, and the Chosen keep the rest of us safe, and we live in peace and plenty.” He chewed vigorously and swallowed. “To be Chosen is a very great thing. Some of us the Goa’uld Accept—they’re the most honored of all. But even the Rejected Ones, those who come back when their time of service is finished, are greatly honored. Our rulers come from among them. So you can see that it’s a great thing to be a Candidate.”

  “Do you know what they Choose you for?”

  The boys looked at one another uneasily.

  “What do you mean? We told you already—to serve them.” Dane said at last. He rubbed at his eyes as he spoke, as if something irritated them.

  Carter shook her head and took a deep breath. “The Goa’uld are not human, like you and me. They only appear that way because they’re parasites. They take your Chosen Ones and they invade them, inhabit them like worms, take over their minds and bodies. They need humans as incubators for their young, as hosts for their mature forms. They’re monsters.”

  The boys stared at her, Markhtin’s mouth hanging open and revealing half-chewed scraps.

  “You’re mad,” he said at last, swallowing. “That’s impossible. It’s monstrous. It’s a fantasy.”

  “Our mother would never consent to anything like that,” Dane added, rising to his feet. “You must be insane. Go—”

  “If we show you proof, you will believe us?”

  “It’s a lie. There can be no proof of a lie.”

  Carter sighed and closed her eyes briefly. She liked these kids very much, and she wished there was some way to avoid what they were going to see next. But they deserved to know the truth. “Teal’C.”

  The black man stepped forward, and the two boys got up and backed nervously away. “What are you doing?”

  Teal’C laid his energy staff on the long wooden table and loosened his wide leather belt. He was wearing a wraparound tunic over Army issue khaki pants, and as he parted the cloth, pulling it free of the belt, Dane stepped closer to his brother.

  “What is he doing?”

  “Watch,” Carter said. She wanted to turn away, to avoid even a glimpse of what was coming, but she had to look and not be afraid—for Teal’C, who was her friend and ally, as well as for these two naive children who had no idea what was coming.

  Teal’C pulled the tunic open without saying a word, exposing a dark, massively muscled abdomen with a curious X-shaped orifice overlying where his navel ought to be. The boys stood frozen, horrified, even though the opening didn’t bleed.

  The flaps of skin pulsed back and forth, and Carter swallowed bile.

  The X darkened, spread, everted, exposing red inner tissue.

  A white, questing tube of independent flesh issued forth from the gaping hole in Teal’C’s stomach. At first it looked like a piece of intestine, but it was smoother, thicker; the blunt end opened in a tripartite yawn, revealing a pale gullet. The thing twisted and turned, blindly seeking, and tendrils stretched out from it, yearning toward the two boys.

  “This,” Teal’C said impassively, “is a Goa’uld larva. It was implanted in me when I was a child. The Goa’uld implant them in the Jaffa because they cannot exist for long without a host body. The larvae mature within our bodies and then, when they are ready, they transfer to other hosts, which they take over completely, obliterating the personality of the new host entirely. This is the true reason the Goa’uld demand tribute from your people: to supply such final hosts. This is the purpose to which you will be put. If you are fortunate, you will become merely a slave. If you are not, you will be possessed by an adult Goa’uld and sentenced to a living death.”

  The larva squealed, as if in anger, and withdrew into the big man’s belly. Teal’C sucked in his breath as the creature pulled back and the slits closed to mere lines once more.

  The two boys stood, wide-eyed and pale, staring at the crossed slits; and then Markhtin spun and lunged for the door.

  He didn’t make it in time. His brother held his shoulders as Markhtin vomited again and again, staining the polished floor and painted wall. In between his heaving, they could hear him whimpering, brokenly, one word over and over. “Mother!”

  Carter and Teal’C exchanged impassive glances. At least their demonstration had definitely made an impression.

  “The others,” Dane said, looking back over his shoulder at the visitors, his face gray as his twin sagged to the floor. “We have to tell the others.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  “Heeeeeere dialer dialer,” O’Neill crooned. “Come out come out wherever you are.”

  Jackson glanced at him and sighed deeply. O’Neill had a bad habit of going off on bizarre tangents under stress. One learned to play along.

  “Got any better ideas?” the colonel inquired, feigning offense.

  “Oh, I don’t know, maybe you could set up a box trap with tacos?”

  “You just don’t do topical sarcasm well, Daniel.” The two of them were standing once more by the M’kwethet Stargate, systematically surveying the area around it. They had gone into every open shop around the square, looking for anything that might be a DHD—“anything bigger than a bread box,” as O’Neill put it. The idea of actually asking everyone they met about the missing control panel was one that they h
ad mutually dismissed, at least for the time being. Or at least O’Neill had dismissed it; he seemed to feel that it would reveal a serious tactical vulnerability. Daniel himself had no problem with asking directions. In the process of searching, they’d also acquired more information about M’kwethet, its technological level, its potential trade goods, and its food. The people they’d met were polite and friendly, curious but not intrusive; they thought their visitors were very unusual but nothing to be particularly afraid of. Daniel had mentally tagged several as potential future informants. From an anthropological point of view, it had been a very productive morning.

  A bit of minor haggling—Daniel had brought along some small, exquisitely engraved plaques for trade purposes—had produced meat and vegetables wrapped in a soft flat bread, reminding them both of burritos. O’Neill had asked for the extra-hot salsa, which had only gotten them more confused stares.

  Still, the food was good, and hot even without the salsa; much better than field rations. They had repaired to the Gate to eat it and had just finished the last few scraps; now they were enjoying the view of the city, sprawled within its bowl of hills, spread out before them. It was a pleasant respite from a growing worry.

  “What are we going to do if we can’t find it?” Daniel asked after a long, aching pause.

  “Stay here,” O’Neill replied bluntly. “And that’s not an alternative.”

  Of course it wasn’t. But what if, Daniel wondered. What if this was the place that the Goa’uld came to retire—never mind that they hadn’t actually found any Goa’uld on this world—and what if Sha’re came through—

  He allowed himself a moment to fantasize about it. This time, this time she would recognize him. She’d reach past the Goa’uld that possessed her—never mind that “nothing of the host remains”—and they would find some way to get rid of it without killing her, without even hurting her. He’d find a way to take her back to Earth, or maybe they’d just stay here, they’d be safe, happy—